Quickgirl

On the E train from midtown Manhattan to Jackson Heights, Queens, she sat next to me and from my periphery I saw her:

Sit and put her black bag next to her, her nylon coat made swishing noises. Toss her blond hair twice. Fold her left hand over her right on her lap. Fold her right hand over her left on her lap, and toss and toss again. Slam her heal down slam her heal down, tap her right toe twice, toss her hair, move her hands in the air before her dance-like, stomp stomp, toss, and stop dead cold frozen. Turn her head then look forward, which was just another way of tossing her blond hair, and stop her left heal down then tap her left toe, then stomp, then tap. Get up and take her coat off then fold it quickly and neatly into a poofy square, put it on her lap, take her black bag, put that on her lap and unzip the bag. Pause. Take out a small pad and a pencil and rezip the bag and leave it in her lap now on top of her coat (there were so many stripes on her sweater it was dazzling—red orange blue purple green yellow—all of them!). Toss. Toss. Pause. And start to write.

All in five minutes, between express stops.