Spadina streetcar, prepped for holiday potluck.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, wearing a large knitted ski sweater and hat, large leather carry-all hoisted on her lap, edging into the next seat.

The Pleasure of Finding Things Out, Richard P. Feynman (Basic)

About halfway through:

And then we have this terrible struggle to try to explain things to people who have no reason to want to know. But if they want to defend their own point of view, they will have to learn what yours is a little bit. So I suggest, maybe incorrectly or perhaps wrongly, that we are too polite.

She stamps her feet on the soaked runner, looks up in time to see her young colleague holding her purse in the elevator door. There are five people inside including "those women" from the floor above, the ones who look at her, then each other. And she knows one day it will be just them and they'll tell her, tell her to just take the stairs, it's not like she couldn't use the exercise. She lunges into a half-spirited jog, her breath catching in her chest in a huff, the candied smiles of her carefully arranged shortbread snowmen falling to their shoulders. Mute.