Sunday afternoons belonged to Miss Brill: she would take the fur necklet out of its box, shake the dust out of it, and brush the fur.
The necklet was old. Something had worn away around its mouth, its eyes were glass, and sometimes it seemed to be hurting somewhere.
“Come,” Miss Brill said to it, and put it round her neck. “We are going out again today.”
The band was already playing in the park, and that was the order of Sundays: the music, the bench, the walk, and a cake on the way home.
Miss Brill sat down in her usual place, the fourth bench, where she could see everything.
People went past her: an old couple who did not speak to each other, two little girls carrying flowers, a woman scolding her dog, and a sailor waiting for his girl.
Miss Brill did not watch them, she simply sat and listened as though she were not listening.
So she sat inside other people’s lives for a minute at a time, like someone glancing into a lit room from the street, where people are talking.
The band began a new piece: the drummer struck the side drum, and the violins followed.
Miss Brill straightened up.
It was as though the whole park had become a stage, and everyone on it had been given a part: the old couple were the two old lovers, the little girls were the chorus, the sailor was the one who waits.
And so was she. She had a part as well.
Every Sunday was the same, but today there was more of it, and today it seemed that everyone knew they were playing.
The band played, and Miss Brill felt her eyes fill.
A young couple sat down at the other end of the bench: the girl was pretty, the boy was strong, and Miss Brill acknowledged them as the leads.
The boy and the girl spoke quietly, and Miss Brill did not mean to listen; she heard it all the same.
“What is that stupid old thing doing here?” asked the boy.
“Who?” asked the girl.
“That one. With the fur. It looks like a fried fish.”
The girl laughed, and so did the boy.
Miss Brill did not move, and the band played on.
At the interval she stood up and started home.
She passed the baker’s shop, and did not look in at the window. Today she bought no cake.
In her room she sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for her neck.
She unclasped the necklet, laid it in her lap, and looked at it for a long time.
Then she opened the box and put it inside.
Something in the box seemed to be crying.
Miss Brill closed the lid.
