I just love tights. Especially if they’re at least translucent.

Her hair is black at the roots. By the time it reaches her shoulders, it has turned brown. It continues to lighten, to something like red/blonde, as it extends to her hips.

Her eyes, almond shaped, are brown. Bright. Big. She casts them resolutely downwards, toward the floor, avoiding eye contact with me or with any of her other admirers.

Her feet, clad in white/black patterned socks that peek out from the top of her two-inch-heeled ankle boots – black, leather – tap impatiently. The train doesn’t move fast enough for her.

Each of her fingernails – too long for her own pleasure – has been painted a different color. Her thumbs sport aqua. Her pinkies, black. In between, they traverse the distance between those two extremes.

She wears a black miniskirt, riding high up on her thighs, past the seam of her black translucent tights. Her knees press against the fabric, their caramel color lighter than the darker brown of her calves, or the lighter brown of her meaty thighs, which strain just a bit less.

Her top – an almost matronly white silk blouse – has French cuffs that emerge tantalizingly from her black cotton jacket. The right cuff, white; the left, navy.

Her black mask obscures what I imagine are full, hungry lips.

The sunset over the bridges is spectacular.

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