Yonge Line, leaning in the door, prepped for the rush at Spadina

Caucasian woman, 40ish, wearing black pin-striped pants, a taupe jacket with ear-high collar, purple suede boots, carrying a blue and brown "ICE" bag.

Blindness, José Saramago (Harcourt)

Page 26:

In recompense, we can easily imagine the fright it gave the thief's wife, when, on opening the door, she came face to face with a policeman in uniform who had in tow, or so it seemed, a forlorn prisoner, to whom, judging from his miserable expression, something more awful must have happened than simply to find himself under arrest.

She didn't wash her hair this morning. She wonders if anyone has noticed. It's high in places, teased, not entirely purposeful. She doesn't turn the page because she's not really reading. The motion is sickening. She just wants to rest her eyes. It's only 8:15 a.m. She's counting down. How many more goddamned events does she have this season? There's nothing glamorous about choking back another glass to be sociable. What stop is this? The bile is rising. She wonders if she could get away with letting people think she's pregnant. Just to get through the day. By 4:00 p.m. she'll be ready for a cocktail.