Tonight the winds blow cold over Manhattan. How dark the streets and nightfall caught me by surprise. I walked home through Chelsea, pulling my jacket closer. As I walked, I realized that my shoes had not been their original white in a long time; yesterday they leaked winter rain into my skin. My tights were snagged and treated with nailpolish. The corduroy on my skirt had long since been worn flat, and I could not lift my arm for the risk of showing the ripped seam in my jacket. The rest of me was wrapped in oversize knits sent to me by a doting mother with a hobby.
So that when I walked through the Chelsea Projects, and the shadows I met in the alleys perhaps should have concerned me, I felt my spine stretch, my eyes steady, my walk soften. Somehow I felt like I had found a place to belong, and I wondered how much of my playing poor was still a game.
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