Ruth sits back and looks out the taxi window. The sun is out today, and in the white winter light the city looks overexposed; she squints as they hurtle past storefront windows frosted with white paint, streetlamps wrapped in garlands, buses kneeling at their stops, a reclining Grinch stretched along the sides of many of them to advertise a movie or a Broadway play, Ruth doesn’t read the fine print. She lurches against the door as the driver changes lanes to avoid an idling truck, and her stomach drops as the taxi bounces over a rise in the pavement. Madison is mostly empty, the lights so wonderfully in sync that they have been able to ride a single wave of green all the way uptown.

She pulls her list of errands from her pocket; she’s ordered the groceries for Christmas lunch, and she’s found a scarf for Wilson’s mother for Christmas. She’s found Isabelle a new art set, though she’s promised herself to stay out of Isabelle’s art from now on. It’s one thing that makes her daughter happy, and she won’t compromise that. And she’s found the perfect gift for Wilson, a desk lamp, penholder, and radio in one, a gift she recognized as one that he might choose for her, as random and unnecessary as a bagel slicer: perfect.

She straightens up as the cab turns down their street, and she puts her errand list away; all she needs to do now is pack for the weekend, and then she can relax for an hour or two before they leave for New England, which is a chore in itself, but she will be a good sport about it, she thinks, for Wilson’s sake. She hands the cab fare to the driver and goes inside, gratefully settling onto the elevator bench as she ascends, realizing suddenly that she is very tired. She is tired of being tired.