New Yorker Style Prose

She heard the slight hum of the eight-thirty traffic, as it moved downhill along the main road beyond the park. But sound was swallowed by the music pulsating through her ears. Her footsteps tapped in time to the music; although she couldn't hear them she was aware of the way the boots would echo around the vast open space, as the heels had worn away and hard wood lay underneath. The park was glossed and sparkling with frost and sunlight that frequently forced her gloved hands to shield tired eyes. The sun itself seemed too bright for winter, but it gradually filtered out weakly over the sky. She could hear nothing except the music; he could only hear her footsteps. The man, old, fragile and tiny with white tufty hair, shuffled slowly and out of time in the silence of the park. His old, fragile, tiny white Yorkshire terrier hopped lightly across the grass. The girl wasn't oblivious to her surroundings, but still experienced a moment of surprise when the tennis ball appeared at her feet after rolling softly towards her. She looked down at the ball, then up to its owner. She crouched down to retrieve the toy, then with a small smile towards her audience, she swiftly propelled the ball across the field. By the time the dog had followed the arching ball and returned it to the man, she was already at the end of the path. She threw a vague glance over her shoulder at the extraordinary pair, and considered getting a hot chocolate in town, with cream. She didn't encounter the old man again, but every subsequent walk to work reminded her of the future, and the brightness of the winter sun.