The prey of the man in the white cotton dress.

He was wearing a dirty cotton dress and white socks. Tall, black and completely crazy, he paced the subway platform from the stairway to the track edge and back again. On his tenth or
eleventh circuit he stopped on the stairs and bent down to adjust the sock on his right foot, then, as if he had just remembered an important appointment, he strode to a nearby bench and searched it's surfaces. Finding nothing, he began to look under the bench, on his hands and knees, giving a view to the onlookers that I'm sure they hadn't expected that morning.

He was hunting, looking carefully with no anxiety, just a resolute determination. His hands floated just above the pavement until, with a suddeness that drew a gasp from the woman standing near me, his left hand stabbed into the dark space and he scutted backwards and stood up. His prey, a cigarette, he held out before him in his fingertips.

He rejoiced.