Before she walked onto the train platform, he’d never seen a pink velour sweat suit in an adult size. She shuffles along on pink sneakers like sad clouds, a slight gut poking from beneath a t-shirt that announces she’s sexy, or juicy or something.

The specifics get lost in the glare.

Her cheap doorknocker earrings remind him of homeroom in high school, of Silvia talking shit with the other girls, Beto trying to sneak a feel. Beto who got deported three years later for slinging rock without a green card. Sylvia who ended up with the bitterness and disappointment of a woman twice her age by the end of senior year.

Dressed in pink and moving like she does, she could be nine or ninety and when she sees him she smiles. The pink velour is stained, and her stringy blonde hair is tied back so hard its pulled the skin of her forehead tight as a drum.

“Yo, sweetheart,” Her voice like a pound of gravel poured into an ounce of honey, “You ca’ he’p me out? I’m hungry.”

Reaching into his pocket, he takes the only dollar he’s carrying out of the money clip and offers it to her. She looks at it and then him, up and down taking in the clean clothes and skin, the soft eyes and good shoes. In her face he can see that he’s just another in a long line of fairy tales with disappointing endings.

Turning on the good charm, like taking the fine china down from the attic and blowing off the dust, she smiles wider and winks.

“C’mon, handsome you can do better than that? I need help.”

Straight through the gaps in her teeth he can see the smoke rising from the last wreck she walked away from. 

“I’m sorry, darlin. That’s all I got on me.” The truth feels small in his mouth.

Snapping the dollar from his fingers, she mutters a grudging thanks and trudges away. He watches her hit up three other men on the platform, but she avoids the women.  She pulls out all her rusty stops, stands hip-shot and tosses her hair but her ponytail is stiff and uncooperative.

It stopped dancing years ago.