The new world was made of polished brass, cream marble, smooth surfaces. The new world smelled of jasmine room freshener and sounded like piped music. The walls curved gently around in an infinite commercial embrace, a protective cupping. The new world was traversed not by concrete stairs but by serenely slow escalators. And the new world, I noticed, was cold to the touch. The surfaces were cold. The conditioned air was cold.
She nodded, looking at me out of the corner of her eye like a naughty, charming old pixie.