Saturday, June 18, 2011

On The Edges Of Our Seats

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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