Bloor Line, off at Sherbourne.

Asian woman, early 40s, with gold rimmed glasses, bangs held back by a black headband, wearing a white collared short sleeve blouse, her hairless forearms ridged with sinewy muscle.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides (Vintage Canada)

Page 365:

When we came in the kitchen door, we found Jerome. He was sitting at the table, reading the Weekly World News. The pallor of his face suggested that he had been there pretty much all month. His lustreless black hair looked particularly inert. He had on a Frankenstein T-shirt, seersucker shorts, white canvas Top-Siders without socks.

She walks to work from here, past the coffee shop, the shady parkette, the corner store with cheap videos, off the main strip and through tree-lined streets. Casey House looks like any other large home. Sometimes someone is sitting on the front patio, reading or chatting with one of the caregivers. Yesterday, she'd been two steps behind him, slowing so that he didn't feel rushed. He walked with the aid of a cane, one foot bagged in No Frills. She'd looked around, wondered if he should be out on his own. He was visibly frail, thin and unsteady. He carried what at first appeared to be books. But when she finally committed to passing, came up along side him, she felt an overwhelming surge in her chest and looked down. They were pictures, five of them, framed, the kind you'd put beside your bed. She looked up to meet his eyes, tired. So tired.