No one in Short Hills or Millburn would want to sit beside a woman filing her nails with an emery board or risk banana moisture on their bottom. She's a blocker, opening the field, giving me the seam.
Oh wait, she's less prim, if no less grim. Taking off her suit jacket in East Orange she reveals shoulders, top of torso, she turns younger. Fixing her straps. Getting ready for her day. The public filing in an enclosed space is still entitled and offensive, but there's the free seat between us. She's clasped and closed in her iPhone world. Dour stern unsmiling.
But wonderful , startlingly straight posture. Her suit's long, below the knee. She puts her coat back on to leave. Her collar askew, half up, half down.
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