The blonde was standing on the Lloyd Center platform, scoping out a seat through the windows as the Max pulled in. She negotiated the crowd smoothly, ending up in the last vacancy in sight, in the middle of the five-passenger bench straight across the aisle from me. Though perspiration was already glittering on foreheads, she seemed cool and relaxed in a pastel summer dress. The bare shoulders set her off from the sober, gray, pressed schmeer of commuters. She could have stepped out of a cigarette ad created by Don Draper.
She was probably in her early thirties, and she sat in a comfortable, balanced posture that suggested a dancer or athlete. She smirked, privately.
I had begun scanning with her hair and now reached the pale, bare shins and slid my eyes straight down to the hot pink nails peeking out of a pair of sandals. But --- wait ---
That ankle bracelet.
What look was she going for? A thick white plastic box the size of a deck of cards held by metal rivets onto a thick white plastic strap. Oh, wow, a real live parolee. "Must have a desk job," I thought.
I was staring at the ankle bracelet.
When I glanced up, I swear she winked.
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