Riding the New York City subway
In lieu of, y'know, actual content, I present this scene from the Q train this morning. I was sitting there thinking I ought to write it down, so I did, and then I realized I really couldn't think of anything to do with what I'd written, except share it with you.

Two girls get on the train a couple of stops after me—a couple I've seen before—both cute, probably mid-20s. One with light brown hair, the other black. The shorter, black-haired one has two tiny rings piercing her right nostril. The taller has a tattoo on her right wrist.

Today is going to be hot, and they're dressed appropriately, in patterned white. The taller is wearing a long, Roman (Greek?) goddess flowing dress, you know, the sleeveless kind with the gathered top. The shorter is wearing just a t-shirt dress: on one shoulder, off the other, with an asymmetrical hem that goes from the right thigh to the left ankle.

As the taller puts her hand on the shorter's thigh, they both cross their legs unconsciously simultaneously. I smile. Tall, with the flowing dress, is wearing matching white flip flops (the modern equivalent of the lace-up sandals the dress calls for). Short, in the t-shirt mini-dress, is wearing beautifully incongruous high black work boots.

They're quiet about their togetherness, not flamboyant, but quietly holding hands, looking at each other from time to time, talking quietly. One of the joys of this being New York City is that, if anyone else has even noticed them, no one is staring (well, no one but me, but I'm being surreptitious and telling myself I'm merely drinking in their character to use in my fiction).

As shorter gets up at Canal Street, they kiss briefly, and then she, her t-shirt dress, and her heavy boots, are gone. Taller seems a bit downcast, continuing to her own destination a few stops farther on. I wonder if she'll be wearing the boots tomorrow.