His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. ‘Don’t be silly.
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