University Line and there ain't no sunshine.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, over blown bleach blonde hair, long black overcoat, flared black pants, stilettos, wearing tinted sunglasses at 8:30am. Stands in one doorway, then moves across to the other, inching me out of my spot, one eye on the page, one seriously trained devil's eye on me.

The World and Other Places, Jeanette Winterson(Knopf)

About 35 pages in:

When she sheds she sheds it all. Her skin comes away with her clothes. On those days I have been able to see the blood-depot of her heart. On those days it was possible to record the patience of her digestive juices and the relentlessness of her lungs. Her breath is blue in the cold air. She breathes into the blue winter like a Madonna of the Frost. I think it right to kneel and the view is good.

Every winter I decide to take up running. At night. It's an en route kind of running. I'm at your place and then I leave and it's night--and winter--and I run. I feel my breath. I feel myself speeding past things I can't see. Something burning slightly into my cheeks. The gentle thud of my feet on the pavement convinces me that these whispy sneakers are good for something other than piling up in the corner. Two minutes and I sincerely believe I could be this person. But I don't want to clock or catalogue how many houses or dog walkers or dogs, for that matter, I pass by; I just want to feel the night breeze. Like riding Space Mountain at Disney World when I was ten. We'd been wretched back and forth, upside down, twisted so that purses and passports were lost to the darkness. I walked out with a sprained arm and ankle, more alive than I could recall.