She’s 5’7″. She wears Birkenstocks. A green minidress, with tiny white circles on it. The minidress is really mini: it extends no lower than mid-thigh. It has the tiniest of spaghetti straps.
I have the distinct sense – though I can’t confirm this – that she wears nothing else.
I mean, I know this is true on top. Her A-cup breasts’ nipples protrude. Exuberantly. Her nails are painted what Crayola used to call “flesh.” Meaning, pink.
The quantity of flesh visible on her arms and legs is maximum. The quantity obscured by her dress, minimum.
Her hair is the dirtiest of blonde. Her eyes, the bluest of blue. Her face is long, slender, and most of it hides behind a blindingly bright blue mask.
She sits, crossing her legs, inevitably, ineluctably, providing her cross-aisle neighbors an answer to the question implied above, about what lies beneath.
I’m well behaved. But I can’t look away.
p.s. She’s wearing panties. Lavender, lacy panties. I learned that without even being a lech.