Meticulously dressed. Black leather heel boots – four inches, with silver buckles and clasps, and waxy, firm laces, tight around the toes, enticingly loose at the ankles. Opaque black tights over shapely calves. They stretch up, high. I never learn if she’s wearing a skirt, or dress. But I see the very tops of her thighs in these tights.

And then, a brown, suede coat, immaculate. No lint, no stains. Improbably pristine. A Native American shawl – black, blue, green, and red, with quarter-inch fringes at the end.

A plain black wool winter hat, perched atop her head, inconsistent with the rest of her outfit.

She’s Asian, or her parents were. Her black hair, dyed brown and, at the back, toward the bottom, blonde. Her fingernails are bright orange, her manicure, perfect.

Her face is severe. She doesn’t smile. She plays solitaire on her iPhone. Her index finger sports a nut-and-bolt ring. Most of her fingers have rings – some silver, some gold.

It’s the end of a long day for her, and she looks as if she just put herself together. Perfectly.

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