A Quiet Death

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Once upon a time, I worked in Washington, DC.

Then, in an extreme case of downsizing, I lost my job to the recession and a breast to cancer – both in the same year.

Now, I was back, threading my way through a knot of entrepreneurs at the McPherson Square Metro station – a sad-eyed Korean girl selling roses, a ukulele-playing panhandler, and some guy pimping Krispy Kremes – and it occurred to me that I didn’t miss the job or the commute one little bit. The breast? Well, that was another matter. Reconstructive surgery had worked its magic – my husband thinks I look hot in my red and white tankini – but the fact remained that Sports Illustrated magazine wouldn’t be featuring me in their annual swimsuit issue any time soon.

A swimsuit, I wish! What better attire for sweltering in a Washington, DC subway station on a busy Tuesday afternoon? For three thirty, the platform was unexpectedly crammed. Tourists drooped, still jabbering about their tour of the nearby White House. School kids sagged under the weight of their backpacks. Other commuters in sweat-stained cotton shirts loafed about, mopping their collective brows, enjoying a temporary respite in the underground tunnel from the relentless triple-digit temperatures. An early-September heatwave had swept over the eastern seaboard, breaking all previous records. When I left Annapolis earlier that morning, the thermometer on my shaded patio had already read eighty-nine degrees. Now, even in the air-conditioned station, I could feel sweat beading along my hairline and trickling down between my breasts.

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