Bloor Line, working through congestion at the bottom of the stairs.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, tall and trim in grey dress pants and a crisp white collared blouse, the handle of the plastic liquor store bag pinching at a respectable diamond engagement ring.

Away From Her, Alice Munro (Penguin Canada)

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The bushes and trees would turn black, once the lights were on. There would just be black clumps along the road and the black mass of trees crowding in behind them, instead of, as now, the individual still identifiable spruce and cedar and feathery tamarack and the jewelweed with its flowers like winding bits of fire. It seemed close enough to touch, and they were going slowly. She put her hand out.

She lowers herself onto the stairs, looks out over the bay and hugs her sweater over her knees, blowing over the lip of her coffee mug. She feels like she's in a movie, but what choice does she have? How else to explain to her future children how cottage sweaters are born?