Her hair is fiery red.

Her skin is polished, smooth.

Her nose has a tiny stud in the right nostril.

Her eyes are big, round, brown.

Her face is pretty.

She wears a little too much rouge.

Her lips are big, full, pursed, as she studies her phone, a colorful scarf between her chin and her chest. Her third finger has a complicated rhinestone knuckle ring. Her nails are glossy, not polished.

I can’t see anything of her body, except from her thighs down. She faces me, her legs crossed, in maroon tights, with white polka dots on them. Her legs are shapely, toned, muscular. Her skirt – black, lacy – is short. It’s almost a slip, over those tights.

Her coffee cup says her name is Olga.

She looks tired.


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