Commuting with Cleavage 3/7

I notice the cleavage first. I am clearly supposed to. If my eyes weren’t already bugged out from four shots of espresso, they surely would be now.

The deep V of her top exposes a broad swath of each of her impossibly cantilevered, smoothly engineered breasts. Over that is a black sequined jacket, more 3am clubbing than 8am F training. In case I didn’t get the message, flashing between her clavicles is a huge pendant, a glittering cheap diamonte heart.

She is digging in her bag and I see the usual stuff, pens, ipod, tissues and she takes out, looks like, a make-up bag. For what? More Look-At-Me? More sparkle lip gloss?

A crochet hook. Yarn. Something half-finished—white, fluffy, achingly delicate. And she sets to work, steady, quick fingered.