I was wearing sneakers when he saw me.
They were gray canvas, scuffed at the toes, the kind of shoes I had bought at a department store on 34th Street without looking at the price tag because for the first time in years, I was walking more than fifty feet in a day and my feet deserved to be comfortable. I had paired them with dark jeans and a navy sweater I had found folded in my new apartment, soft from years of washing, smelling faintly of the lavender detergent I had chosen myself. No pearls. No heels. No silk. No armor.
The evening air tasted like autumn and exhaust, the particular perfume of a Manhattan October that I had forgotten existed. I walked out of the Stellar building at 7:00 p.m., my laptop bag heavy on my shoulder, my hair escaping from a messy bun, my mind still tangled
