Today on the evening bus there stood a lady in a black dress, with hints of lace around her waistline. She poised herself as close as possible to the window, her gait slightly elevated by straw wedge heels and a messy yet volumous updo that had been worn away with hours and showed strands or disobedient baby hairs. It almost made her endearing. With the burden of department-store shopping bags and large beige handbag on the bus floor and just a sequin clutch in her hand she stared out to the window's vista of pretty lights and luminous socialite wealth, and allowed her arms to graciously float as if they were affectionately touching the arms of guests at her debutante party. Her right thumb and forefinger graced the pole as if she were pinching the skinny bulb of a champagne glass, the other three splayed and curled slightly. She then lightly adjusted the neckline of her dress, as If about to float down the staircase with an organic guilded banister before hundreds. Then the out of tune melancholic dissonance of a two tuneless bell tones sounded and the doors steamed open. She fled the the bus in a silent fluster of self-consciousness.
