She was, at most, eighteen. Perhaps younger, but the tatoo on the inside of her left wrist--two lines of cursive script--suggested that she was of age.
The tattoo acted as the caption for the red compact she held less than six inches from her eyes. Her right hand darting her index finger into her left palm where a dot of cream-based makup sat. Index to palm, then back to her eyes. Getting the coverage just right.
Past North Berkeley, and Berkeley, then Ashby. At MacArthur she bolted, up with the commuters jumping ship for the San Francsico bound train. Her deep focus hypnotizing in its own way.
Once she left the train felt empty, unpossesed. Just more of the herd on their way to the pens. Not a fair image, these are all souls worthy of empathy. Well, everyone but the guy with the Old Spice text tone. Whatever magick was here left when she took her deep self-possesed focus away.
The doors close and I blink and she's suddenly there again. Locked into a duet with that compact.