She has a memorable kind of face, clean, distinguished, European. Her forehead is high, her eyes a clear blue, nose very straight, cheekbones pronounced, jaw strong. The skin is pale ivory, eyelashes sooty, and her hair a deep black rippling across her bare shoulders. The dark blouse she wears covers her neatly in svelte lines and goes nicely with her black, pleated slacks and high-heeled black boots. A young woman, maybe twenties, utterly professional as she coolly appraises the train station's milieu, seething in and out to get their tickets, greet their loved ones, and catch their trains.
She has played the huntress before.
A hooded figure, long, long coat, long gloves in the suffocating, humid heat of a Mississippi summer glides across her frame of view. The person stops, hesitant, looking this way and that. The face is that of a young, frightened teenage girl, long brown hair framing her face. She seems hot and her forehead's pinched with worry. She goes up to buy a ticket.
The huntress watches, notes the color of the slip of paper the girl receives. One way.
People seethe in, seethe out, buy tickets, greet loved ones, catch trains. The girl climbs into a train bound for Detroit, Michigan. The young woman, so professional, sets aside her coffee and her newspaper and gets up off the hard bench where she was sitting. She goes to greet a young man with thick auburn hair falling to his shoulders and into his eyes, wearing dark sunglasses, a long brown duster. A five o'clock shadow dusts his handsome, angular features. She slides one arm beneath his coat and pulls him close. He kisses her hair.
A nice young couple.
She tucks her head against his shoulder and they walk out together. So nice. So young. So professional.
She is a huntress, a survivor, a fighter.