On your way home from work, you had gotten caught in the midst of a wrathful storm, your only cover being an old bus-stop for a discontinued route. As you approached the shelter, you were met with a staturesque woman stood there, her black hair adorned with faint streaks of gray, visible lines of age on her delicate features as her finger flicked to try light the cigarette between her lips, the spark illuminating her face in a soft warm glow. You settled to stand beside her, brushing off any droplets of rain on your jacket as the pattering of water above you filled your ears.

You must’ve been staring, as her dark eyes darted to the side to shoot you a glare, as if she felt your gaze on her almost instinctively. Her stare was piercing -- almost offensive. You quickly redirected your eyes, a faint red hue rising up your neck. The last thing you wanted was to creep out the one person you were stuck with until the rain died down. She seemed amused by your reaction, a small smirk forming on her ruby-painted lips as her cigarette finally lit.