[an eccentric woman running to catch the bus]

The bus had just made a temporary stop when P noticed her.

'What the hell is in her mouth?' P thought, chastising herself for noticing. A woman, swathed in a royal shade of burgundy faux velvet, was hurriedly making her way towards the bus stop. She wore tinted moon-shaped glasses that sat perched on her prominent nose. Her face was deeply wrinkled, the white powder of her foundation sitting comfortably in the crevices of her face, periodically unsettled by the enthusiasm with which she was chewing a piece of gum. A long, sea-green tartan lay draped across her left shoulder, matching the extravagant head scarf that devoured her head.

The twin lunar spheres that peered out from within the mass of colourful cloth caught sight of the bus, temporarily stationed at its stop. She hastily quickened her pace, spurred on by the prospect of having to wait another ten minutes under the hot November sun. Her ample hips pounded from side to side as her pace peaked towards an awkward staccato. Half run, half walk, her hips continued to pound left and right, left and right. She raised her arms in the air and started to wave in the general direction of the driver. Everything about the way she existed in that moment screamed 'WAIT FOR ME.' 

Arms waving in the air, bathed in a purple head scarf that consumed half her head she should have made the most entertaining sight. But P didn't notice any of that. All she could do was zero in on the woman's mouth. The chewing, the chewing.  

[a young woman with lofty ideals]

She is a pixie - fair headed, eyes elvish; her stature is small and bookish. And yet from this seemingly timid frame, two aqua eyes pierce into the depths of you. Clear. Unclouded. Resolute. They shine with a wild gleam, pulsing with some unbeknownst, secret knowledge.

When she opens her lips to speak, a torrent of rousing words pours out. Words that whisper the seductive promise of equality, words whose meaning has power enough to free the shackles of the eternally oppressed working class.

She has put her life on pause for ideology, no, for justice - and yet, she is decidedly middle class. The clean scrubbed skin, the comfortable cotton of her neat t-shirt and mustard yellow leggings.

But no one doubts her sincerity, she is fully committed to her cause. The truth of it has seeped into her soul. The depth of her commitment emanates, it pours out from every fibre of her being, it overflows from the pores of her skin. Her frame is tense, her movements are prone to jerkiness, but her clear voice expresses no doubt. The depth of her commitment is all-consuming, unnervingly so.

[an office lady walking with her friend]

She was laughing with her head tilted towards the sky. The motion scrunched up her face in a strange manner and made her neck look like a fleshy peach, plump and ripe. She wore a sheer blouse that was a delicate sea-foam green, the kind of blouse that is popular with office ladies nowadays; the type that aims to convey a seriousness that is decidedly feminine. Her hair was a shoulder-length blonde, her eyes are forgotten. 

It was all so fleshy, P thought. One mass of human flesh, covered in light fabric.

[a man ordering food in a restaurant]

He wore a black pinstriped shirt. The vertical lines shone an odd dull silver as they reflected the shadowy glow of the tea candles. He was accompanied by a young blonde woman, no more than twenty five years old. She wore a tank top and smiled at him from time to time with a strange mixture of restraint and adoration. His head was shaped like a rounded square - compact, with a rugged softness at the edges. Two wide-set blue eyes stared intently at the people moving around him. They sparkled, but lacked a certain depth. He had brown hands, strong and sturdy, that lay gently clenched in his lap. 

Life seemed to be happening through a veil, a shroud of popular opinion which filtered his thoughts. A slight air of alpha-male condescension reverberated around the brown curls that clung close to his head. His speech was slow and deliberate, loaded with assumption and, perhaps, a little bit of uncertainty? And yet, even though he thought and moved much like a puppet on strings, he was not entirely devoid of character. For one tiny moment he engaged with the person talking to him, and his aura changed entirely.