A packet of gaspers.

Their voices were soft and rhythmic. But they sounded ill-adjusted, like children on stage who don't remember what part to play. Off-kilter and nervous...
Thrice buses passed me. Well-lit windowed havens of warmth. I wanted their soft loneliness, rather than this chill that only leeches one's own heat slowly, as to be almost unnoticeable until one's nose runs. The sound they made when they rushed away absorbed Jarboe's melodies, and I didn't mind that at all.