Her dark brown hair had been curled into perfection, the gentle coils swaying slightly in the wind. Someone had opened the narrow window that ran along the bus like a scar, and the very air rushing thorugh it seemed to caress her ivory skin.
An elegant yet informal dress completed the getup, the dark burdungy color complementing her light rubour perfectly.
She had thick black glasses, and on their own they managed to convey a sense of intelligence, of a carefully cultured mind behind the languid, doll-like exterior.
Across her lap laid open "New York Trilogy", by Paul Auster, an experimental detectivesque novel.
To round the ensemble her ipod was black and small, discreet, the earphones equally black, almost diffuminated against the deep shade of her hair.
The best way to end the description would be saying she was listening to some classical music, maybe something from Batch, even some obscure opera. But from start to end I have strieved to make this description as accurate as possible, and had I said any of those things I would have been lying through my teeth.
What blasted from the dark earphones was heavy-metal, a discordant chorus of screaming accompained by a strong bass.
And the music seemed to shatter the carefully crafted image her appearance had been designed to proyect, that single detail managing to discredit all the others as a ridiculous pose.
It was the only contradiction, the only thing out of place. Her face was serene, despite the hateful lyrics her ipod kept whispering in her ear; her eyes seemingly drinking from the book, absolute concentration and rapture taking over any other exterior sign of emotion.
But she wasn't what she seemed to be, and that alone intrigued me.
Maybe enough to follow her home, and find out all her dirty little secrets.
Who knew? I didn't have anything pressing for at least a fortnight, anyway.
That left plenty of time to hunt.