Flying Solo

As I exit my apartment building, hurrying for work, Anat C. walks in and says hello.  She works in my building, in an office on the first floor, so I occasionally run into her there.  Outside, the weather has turned sour again.

I'm pretty late already, and the subway platform is practically empty. On board the train, a tan man in blue jeans and a brown coat has fallen asleep while standing. There are a few other people in the car, including one woman I recognize from synagogue, but the person that grabs my attention most is a tall African American man.   He is dressed entirely in black leather, save for a gray overcoat and knitted gloves.  Even his fedora is leather.  Walking aimlessly about and muttering to himself, the man is still able to hold the command of presence that is all too typical in New York City.  He notices me and, through darkened sunglasses, shoots a dirty look in my direction.