Sitting on the drippy, cold steps of Penn Station, sharing a smoke with a boyfriend. This Saturday night is scattered with drunks, and for once, we are not the drunkest; we do not smell the worst. Late-night, paranoid tourists don’t even stare—a few ask for directions. We are spreading our wet, waiting bodies all over that stone, watching stumbling silhouettes wrestle with the escalator.

　　She shuffles up the steps with the last of her strength. Her pink sweatpants are tinged with brown, and her feet are buried in city-stained bunny slippers. Her eyes look like they’ve seen so much sadness they’re forever doomed to apathy. They are eyes dazed with the work it takes to stay warm, and weary of the excess of privileged people. I’m looking at those glass eyes and thinking that she reeks of survival; that I’m too cold to move, and all I’m doing is waiting for the first train home.

　　Out comes her wrinkled, begging hand. We turn out our pockets and find nothing. The mouth of the station swallows her descending, dejected frame.

　　Light another smoke. We are pushing reluctant time forward as it digs its heels in at the dusty smells and sounds of old stories, at the sucking of smoke, at our involuntary shivers.

　　She’s back again. The wrinkled hand, heavy with pleading, is now answering.

　　She drops four warm quarters into my palm and says, “Get yourselves a cup of coffee. Merry Christmas.”

　　The station gulps her up again before we can say thank you.