She is perfectly¹ ordinary， a cashmere scarf snugly² wrapped around her neck. She is a middle age that is crisp， appealing in New York.

    She is a brain surgeon or a designer of blowdryers.

    I know this because I am in her skin this morning riding the bus， happy to be not young， happy to be thrilled that it is cold and I have a warm hat on.

    Everyone is someone other than you think under her skin. The driver does not have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his metal lunchbox. He has caviar left over from New Year's and a love note from his mistress， whom he just left on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 14th Street.

    When she steps off his bus to take over the wheel of the crosstown No. 8， she knows she is anything but ordinary. She climbs under the safety bar and straps³ the belt on over her seat. She lets the old lady who is rich but looks poor take her time getting on. She lets the mugger who looks like a parish priest help her. She waits as we sit， quiet in our private， gorgeous lives