ABSTRACT
Seven wreaths, green, caparisoned forelocks, garland the upper tier of windows of the Trust Company branch: We are lurching out of Harvard Square. My pen skates towards stability as this bus speeds around its circuit, which also skitters a cappuccino cup about the blue rink of my lap. Beside me, a sketcher. His freckles and beard scattered specks and spun strands of ginger, he wears his darker, oily curls like a delicate, handwoven calotte. His pencil’s rapid route draws my gaze until the bus shifts so that he shifts, obscuring his designs. Sneakers nesting atop the wheels of a capsized skateboard, before dislodging to let the woman pass. The bus rests for a second, his hand revs up. Ah, I see, he is capturing in pencil this December scene that enfolds us, when those girls, three, stumble, trip, topple onto me. I wait, but they proffer no excuses to right their momentary losses of poise, just sneers in triplicate as they cluster at the rear of the car. What else to do but roll my eyes at their crude masks of contempt while the sketcher simply sketches on. https://s3-euw1-ap-pe-df-pch-content-public-p.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/9780429039348/cc8aa69a-1983-434a-9d72-087a76cff2ea/content/fig1.tif" xmlns:xlink="https://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"/>
