Patricia was wearing these jean shorts ten years ago but she’s still got the legs for them, right? Yeah. She wouldn’t be getting waitress work otherwise.

Her boyfriend Burke’s going to get her car running again soon, but meanwhile the bus is screwing her over. Her hands flick and flutter: white moths in a bubble. They have long Lee nails with French tips like you’d get in a salon.

Patricia’s face is wound and gathered like tie-dye around her unhappy mouth. Her eyes are a dark, thick blue, like the water in Jacques Cousteau books, too blue to be real.