He looked like any other low slung hip-hop hood, wide slouching jeans and a loudly patterned hoodie with something like the Yellow pages logo drunkenly stamped all over it in grinding red, chartreuse, and green, except that the music blaring from his shiny black headphones wasn’t rap. It was candied children’s music, something simple and Mexican, the South American aural equivalent of tooth rotting, brightly shiny sugar dots.
“Maybe I should marry a bus driver,” she thought, sitting next to him, “Settle down with someone with a steady job, who smiles at strangers. Someone with the celtic knot tattoo around their upper arm that was trendy when I was seventeen and they were twenty six. He could own a gun I would frown upon, play a little bit of guitar, and light candles instead of turning on lamps at night in the summertime.”