She stands 5’3″. She is athletic, muscular, pretty. Her hips flare out. Her solid, meaty ass fills her tight blue cargo pants – pants that weren’t intended to be tight, that were designed to fit generously.
Her blonde hair, straight, layered, falls to just below her shoulders, shoulders which are covered by a fuchsia linen top, over a black cotton tank.
Her eyes are blue, clear. They meet no one’s gaze.
Her cheekbones are high. Her fingernails are painted an orange that clashes with her top.
She doesn’t smile as she reads the newspaper on her phone.
She barely acknowledges the generosity – whose motivation surely is suspect – of the man who gives up his seat to her, but not to any of the other plausible candidates for it, including a somewhat shaky-on-his-feet sexagenarian.