[ Dominique DiPierro is inside a coffeeshop with a nice fresh Americano and a scone. She's got a book that she picked up—an inconsequential spy novel, nothing terribly well-written or thrilling, but amusing enough.
Then there's that prickle at the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched. A cop's instinct, she knows now—she knows with certainty that she was a detective of some kind before she came here. Casually, without urgency, she looks up from her book and her gaze flicks around the room. No one inside.
Then she looks out the window and sees him—someone who's been through some shit, plainly. Who might not be out of place on an F train platform right before the last train of the night, being given a wide berth by everyone who just wants to get the hell home.
Accidentally, perhaps, her gaze meets his, and instinctively she gives him a little smile and—why?—a wave. ]
option one
Then there's that prickle at the back of her neck, the feeling of being watched. A cop's instinct, she knows now—she knows with certainty that she was a detective of some kind before she came here. Casually, without urgency, she looks up from her book and her gaze flicks around the room. No one inside.
Then she looks out the window and sees him—someone who's been through some shit, plainly. Who might not be out of place on an F train platform right before the last train of the night, being given a wide berth by everyone who just wants to get the hell home.
Accidentally, perhaps, her gaze meets his, and instinctively she gives him a little smile and—why?—a wave. ]