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by that particular virus. ‘I got the tinsel you wanted,’ she says.
    ‘Mmmmm?’
    ‘the tinsel,’ she says. ‘It’s on the kitchen table.’
    ‘Oh.’ Now he remembers. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘Sure.’ She’s back down and already starting to drift off again. He doesn’t envy the fact that she can stay in bed until nine - hell, until eleven, if she wants - but he envies that ability of hers to wake up, talk, then drift off again. She says something else, but now she’s back to ugga-wugga. He knows what it is just the same, though: have a good day hon.
    ‘Thanks,’ he says, kissing her cheek. ‘I will.’
    ‘Look very nice,’ she mumbles again, although her eyes are closed. ‘Love you, Bill.’
    ‘Love you too,’ he says and goes out.
    His briefcase - Mark Cross, not quite top of the line but almost - is standing in the front hall, by the coat tree where his topcoat (from Barney’s on Madison) hangs. He grabs the case on his way by and takes it into the kitchen. The coffee is all made - God bless solid state electronics and microchips - and he pours himself a cup. He opens the briefcase, which is entirely empty, and picks up the ball of tinsel on the kitchen table. He holds it up for a moment, watching the way it sparkles under the light of the kitchen fluorescents, then puts it in his briefcase.
    ‘Do you hear what I hear,’ he says to no one at all and snaps the briefcase shut.
    8:15 A.M.
    Outside the dirty window to his left, he can see the city drawing closer. The grime on the glass makes it look like some filthy, gargantuan ruin - Atlantis, maybe, just heaved back to the surface. It’s a grey day with a load of snow caught in its throat, but that doesn’t worry him much; it is just eight days until Christmas, and business will be good.
    The car reeks of morning coffee, morning deodorant, morning aftershave, morning perfume, and morning stomachs. There is a tie in almost every seat - even the women wear them these days it seems. The faces have that puffy eight o’clock look, the eyes both introspective and defenseless, the conversations halfhearted. This is the hour at which even people who don’t drink look hung over. Most people just stick to their newspapers. He himself has the Times crossword open in front of him, and although he’s filled in a few squares, it’s mostly a defensive measure. He doesn’t like to talk to people on the train, doesn’t like loose conversation of any sort, and the last thing in the world he wants is a commuter buddy. When he starts seeing the same faces in any given car, when people start to nod to him or say ‘How you doin today?’ as they go to their seats, he changes cars. It’s not that hard to remain unknown, just another commuter, one who is conspicuous only in his adamant refusal to wear a red tie. Not that hard at all.
    ‘All ready for Christmas?’ the man in the aisle seat asks him.
    He looks up, almost frowning, then decides it’s not a substantive remark, but only the sort of empty time-passer some people seem to feel compelled to make. The man beside him is fat and will undoubtedly stink by noon no matter how much Speed Stik he used this morning … but he’s hardly even looking at his seatmate, so that’s all right.
    ‘Yes, well, you know,’ he says, looking down at the briefcase between his shoes - the briefcase that contains a ball of tinsel and nothing else. ‘I’m getting in the spirit, little by little.’
    8:40 A.M.
    He comes out of Penn Station with a thousand other topcoated commuters and commuterettes, mid-level executives for the most part, sleek gerbils who will be running full tilt on their exercise wheels by noon. He stands still for a moment, breathing deep of the cold grey air. Madison Square Garden has been tricked out with greenery and Christmas lights, and a little distance away a Santa Claus who looks Puerto Rican is ringing a bell. He’s got a pot for contributions with an easel set up beside it. HELP THE HOMELESS THIS