The seat on this train is warm from someone else's body. There are beer cans rolling around on the floor at ten a.m. A young woman is well asleep, her hair is still wet from her morning shower, head tilted back against the wall, her jaw relaxing until I can see daylight between her lips. She is too young to be so tired.

I am remembering joy, daylight, merriment and I am drunk enough so that I can't stop my body from telling its truth. My hand shoots out to touch his freshly shorn head, the hand attracted to that field of velvet bristle as sure as humming bees to a field of clover.

And now I am standing on a traffic island where the cars hurtle towards me before veering off around the park. I am waiting for the light to change, for the bookstore to open, for the street to be crossed. Again I am drunk on joy and daylight, but I will keep my hands in my pockets and only hum to music in my head.