From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
I gripped the rough edges of my Rook cards, my palms sweating against the stiff linen as the newsboys shouted about those poor girls throwing themselves before the train. The world feels increasingly lousy, and even my new columnar dress is so tight in this heavy velvet that I can barely catch a breath to scream. Everything is becoming dangerously dear; I just saw the service station posting $0.15 for a single gallon, a price that makes my heart flutter with a terrible, mounting dread. I keep adjusting my wide-brimmed hat, feeling the coarse ostrich feathers prickle my neck while I wonder how much longer we can afford to even move.