Her skin is dark. She’s from the Asian subcontinent, or her parents were.

She’s tall – maybe 5’8″. She stands on two-inch black suede heels. Her black tights aren’t quite opaque – the flesh of her long, toned legs is just visible through them. She wears a cute black dress, 3/4-sleeved, with a pattern of off-white and red. The dress has an elastic waist. Well not a waist. It cinches around her torso, just below her C-cup breasts.

Her brown eyes have long lashes and sit beneath bushy, full brows. Her black hair – thick, shiny – hangs several inches below her shoulders. It would brush her nipples if she were nude.

Her black plastic glasses are perched atop her head. She doesn’t need them to read her phone.

She’s very pretty.

Suddenly, there’s a commotion. External circumstances startle us both, and she draws to me. “I’m just going to start a random conversation,” she says.

I’m thrilled to interact. She’s lovely to look at. The conversation is brief, substance-free.

And then, it’s over. She’s gone.

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