Her shoes are black flip-flops, the sort sold in the seasonal aisle of the supermarket. She wears black capris and a tank top of an orange color suitable for highway construction zones. Both the pants and top show the signs of many washings. Comfortable, but worn; washed out, but serviceable -- the image of a morning bus rider.
She sits in the first seat behind the driver. Her ample breasts loll on folds of her belly that stack on her lap. She is a blonde model for the wife of the Michelin man.
As she settles in her seat and begins talking to the women nearby, she casually slips her left hand under the right strap of her top and tucks her bus pass between her bra and the outside of her right bosom.
She doesn't carry a purse.
I return to my book wondering where she keeps her spare change.