“Can I have one of those rings?”
She is referring to the silver rings on my hand. I purchased them during my association with Tara at her kiosk in a mall in another country.
“Sorry, these rings have sentimental value. Do you usually ask strangers for their belongings?”
“Where do you work?”
She is standing very close to me. I can smell the rancid products, mixed with perspiration, in her short not recently washed hair.
The top of her petit head reaches no higher than my upper chest. She is wearing a dark-colored tight fitting tee shirt that exposes her midriff, multiple bangles, rubber bands, charms and other trinkets wrapped around her wrists, and a studded belt through the loops of close fitting low rise jeans which bear many tears due to fashion or circumstance. I gesture to the attic, the place that I work.
“Can I see?”
I think for a moment; she isn’t large enough to assault me, and I have a female coworker in the studio with me, so it is unlikely that she can falsely accuse me of assaulting her.
“Sure. Why not?” I lead the way…