Starting down the steps at 59th street subway station, the heat hits you like you’ve opened the door to a cavernous clay oven. There’s no turning back because attempting to fight the tide of suits flowing underground at 5pm would be futile – each briefcase and stiletto heel eddying slightly because someone, like the limb of a tree, appears caught in the turnstiles. Inconvenienced, irate, and reddening like salmon, people pack into the air-conditioned carriages as quickly and tightly as possible. Whoever put the advertisements for John West’s Sardines in subway cars understands the human condition all too well.
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