It was a small incident, the arrival of the woman into the periphery of his life, and he forgot about her until he saw her again later that week. She was, apparently, a creature of routine because she always arrived at 4:35 and always did the exact same thing: she'd open, read, rip, toss, replace the sunglasses, and disappear through the various dogs tied to the railing on the steps in the foyer. Based on his observations, she got one letter a week, and they mustn't have been too important because she discarded them immediately. Her face never registered anything as she read. No smile cracked along her lips, painted a dark, rich shade of red-brown, nor did she ever straighten up and begin to read with sudden intensity. When she broke that pattern, Steve was, in a detached way, stunned. He'd just concluded his Expression business and turned from the window when he saw her there in her usual stance, leaning against the wall of mail boxes. She looked relaxed but distant, as usual. Then her face changed and she took a few steps to the counter and seemed to use it to steady herself. Steve moved toward the stamp machine. A man in an orange shirt fed quarters into the slot, and Steve stepped behind him. The woman flattened her letter out on the counter and read it again. Her head fell forward and the sunglasses clattered to the floor. She fumbled twice, so unlike her usual abbreviated gestures, when she reached down to pick them up. Then she folded the letter back into its envelope and carefully tucked it into the inside pocket of her jacket. She almost ran out of the post office, her movements uncoordinated and clumsy. And then Steve noticed her pink key ring sitting on the counter among the used carbon paper and bits of trash. He crossed quickly, picked it up, and started toward the exit. He waited impatiently as a woman with a stroller maneuvered through the one working street door. Then he stepped onto 14th Street, moving across the crowded sidewalk to the curb to get a clearer view. The woman was walking east, just making the right turn onto Avenue A. He picked up speed as he followed her. A crowd of noisy kids, their pants drooping into puddles of cloth at their ankles, stood on the corner. Steve skirted around them in time to see her step into a liquor store a few doors down. He had her keys in his hand as he pushed through the heavy glass door. He even felt the "m" in the word "Miss" form in his lips, but he said nothing.