Collection: Tramontana

There's a woman I see sometimes on the last métro, and I know nothing about her except this: whatever happened to her that day, it didn't work. The city can do its whole routine: delays, noise, somebody's bad night leaking into everyone else's and her face files it all under irrelevant. Tramontana is that face, engineered. A narrow square in Japanese titanium, drawn with the restraint of things that expect to last, small enough to seem like a secret and precise enough to make everything around it look approximate. She gets off at Concorde. I've never once seen her hurry.