Bad Indians: A Tribal Memoir

He risked a quick glance up at her face as she
shifted to let someone squeeze toward the exit. She
knew how to use makeup, that was certain; a little
foundation, some blue eye shadow but not too much,
and a discreet but feminine coral-pink lipstick. A bit
heavy on the rouge, perhaps, but then again, maybe
that extra tinge was from the effort of hoofing it up
to the bus stop in the rain. Firm chin, a good nose
with some arch to it. Not ashamed of her strength,
he decided. Her hair, mostly silver with black
streaks, pulled back into a tight braid and protected
from the elements by one of those plastic baggiethings
old women always carry in their purses.
Suave, in a sweet way.
She’d tied a silky blue scarf, just the right color to
set off her eye shadow, at her throat. Coyote
would’ve liked a better look at her neck, but as it
was, he was surprised to find that one old woman
could hold his attention this long.
Shi-i-i-t. What was he thinking? He was on his
way outta here, this was not the best time to be
ogling a woman. Disgruntled and hungry, he looked
out the wide front windows at the rain and resisted
the awful thought that he was inside a mobile
aquarium. “Okay,” he thought, “I’m on the road,