She’s striking, hot, sexy.

She’s – by far – the youngest person in the room. She’s in her late 20s. The second-youngest person is at least a decade older.

She has dirty blonde hair, tousled, pulled back chaotically in a sort of tangled, knotty, twist.

Her shirt is plaid. But it’s more striking feature is how tight it is. The space between the top two buttons is fighting against the button above and below it, straining to open. She is self-conscious, constantly adjusting the shirt to minimize the gap between the buttons.

She has what at first glance appears to be a fox stole around her shoulders, but when she turns around, I see that it’s a suede vest, with a fox fur collar.

She wears tight colored jeans, and colored sneakers.

Her eyes – big, wide – are bright blue. Her cheekbones, impossibly high. Her lips, full, pouty.

She doesn’t smile. Repels even small talk. (Not just mine.) But her voice is raspy, crazy sexy.

She checks her phone. Something compelling is there. I can’t tell what, but I see her mood shift. First, shock. Then sadness. She’s sobbing, silently, in a room with no one she knows, and in which she’s been at pains to be alone.

I turn away, not wanting to intrude further.

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