Back on the platform, the violinist from the morning was there again, playing to an empty stretch of tracks. Mara stepped closer, hands tucked into pockets where confetti and a ticket and a small lipstick lived. He played a tune that was not quite a lullaby and not quite a street song, and it pressed against the ribs like a memory you haven't yet had.
When the commute is "full," every inch of personal space is a premium. This is where the frivolous dress faces its greatest trial. How do you maintain the integrity of a high-fashion "order" when you are squashed between a wet umbrella and a bicycle?
And survival gear? Rarely comes in “frivolous.”
We spend roughly commuting. That is a lot of time to look like a sad potato.
