From the day
Perspective: The Anxious Local · Tactile
My fingers are numb from clutching this thick wool coat shut, but the six cents for a loaf of bread feels like a fortune slipping through my threadbare gloves. Between the whispers of men being drugged at the polls and the cold bite of the wind, the world feels far too close to a blighty mess for comfort. I try to steady my nerves by focusing on the slick, linen-finished snap of the Rook cards I’m holding for my neighbor’s boy. The stiff cardboard yields slightly under my thumb, a small, tangible comfort in a week where a man can’t even cast a vote without fearing for his life.