Exiting the SeaBus, there's a woman walking in front of me. I notice her first because she is wearing an interesting jacket: mid-thigh length, earth-toned wool, with a ribbon belt woven in and tied at the back. She can wear a jacket like that. She can wear anything and have it look right.
Her hair is done up with a few loose tendrils down the sides. This morning, they were carefully slipped out of her too perfect bun and artistically curled and sprayed. I can't see her face, but I feel sure that her make up must be simple and subtle, and perfect.
She is carrying a clutch purse, the kind that cannot be slung lazily over a shoulder, the kind that only holds a lipstick, a credit card and some keys. She isn't wearing gloves, despite the chill, and she doesn't pull her hands into her sleeves or even stick her free hand into her pocket.
She's wearing fashionable sandles in the thin early snow. She doesn't get cold. She doesn't hunch her shoulders against the cold wind when we exit the building. She walks obliviously through the night. She walks away with purpose and she never gets jostled by the crowd with their shopping bags and snow boards.
I bounce along through the crowd in her wake, in my grubby boots and my wool cap and coat. I adjust the two bulging bags I have hanging from my shoulders and shove my hands deeper into my pockets. I wish I knew where my gloves are. I bet her hands don't go numb and white.
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