I sense villainy and the possibility of superheroes.

The light from a copse of skyscrapers penetrates the haze; the height of the structures compresses street clearances and the volume of this car until I shiver when the warm air inside my clothes moves against my skin.

The world is small.

Outside, the congealed ozone is a lozenge on the back of my tongue, and it cools the heat trapped now by too much clothing.

Pedestrians pass like magicians behind the shifting opacity. We are local and find our way sightlessly.

The three of us surround a table in the Asian light of Blue Willow, making a vivid display for passersby: late-nite diners play the empty restaurant, our figures animated and conversation bounding around the walls. We’re beautiful in youthfulness, our hairstyles and clothes new and stylish. We’re catching up, talking about our activities and the books we’re reading. We talk about plays and decide to see several together before next summer. And then we drive home, stirring up the path as we go.

("I think this is the best haircut you’ve ever had!")