The worn toe of her Nike taps the floor beneath

the bench as her right hand records a different rhythm

on a thigh barely covered by a pair of worn denim

shorts. Loose breasts bounce in time to the beat under

a lime-green tee shirt. Across the front of it is printed

IN CASE OF RAPE THIS SIDE UP.

            Her eyes trap mine. We lock in a generation-gap stare. She knows I am interested in her. For an instant, her eyes flicker away from mine only to return to scrutinize my face with increased intensity. She has the attention from me that her attitude and her shirt demand.

            I smile and nod. That surprises her. She huddles closer to her friend and peers at me now and then. The question marks that are her eyes hesitate then transition from fierce to friendly and back again. 

A lock of purple hair covers one eye. Her grin spreads

across flame-red lips and explodes into embarrassed

laughter in response to my watchfulness. Her now

steady gaze challenges me to look away.  I do, but

only ‘til she starts searching inside her large purse. On

its flap, a name, Tira, is visible in gold sequins.

Tira and I sit on benches opposite each other for another seven minutes. It’s time enough for me to wonder if the legs beneath the torn, black fishnet stockings ever ran up and down a high school basketball court or if the pale arms, drooping from her jagged sleeves, twitched as the tattoo artist inked the butterfly perched on her shoulder. 

Tira finds what she has been searching for—green, gold, and purple strings of beads. She drapes twenty or so of them around her neck and begins to apply gold glitter to her eyelids and cheeks. Her companion attentively supervises.

A blast of the ferry’s horn signals we have crossed the Mississippi. Tira and her friend are interesting additions to the Mardi Gras celebration going on today in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

As she disembarks, I offer a silent prayer that the soul hidden beneath this brazen exterior is in reality not what I see.