S e l e n e
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“Hey, I like your shoes.”
I pause, turning in my cell to see a dark-hair woman gripping the bars next to mine. She peers close, her mascara blotchy, her too-dark foundation cracking on her skin, and her eyeliner smudged. She might as well have been only wearing her underwear. In a top that covered only her breasts and fishnet tights paired with jean shorts, I was pretty sure I saw a sliver of hair between her thighs.
“They’re designers, right?” she asked, tilting her head a smile.
I glance at my loafers with a signature “H.” I didn’t know what brand they were. She did.
“They cost a good grand or two,” she continued.
I see she’s shoeless. Did it fall off when she was running?
“They take your shoes if you’re going to remain here long,” she deadpanned. “So, what’s your
