"Of me?"
"Of the compartment. Of the snow. Of the man who wished me a merry train." She raised the camera. The faux fur sleeve fell back, showing a slender wrist and a thin gold bracelet that caught the bulb. "You may look dignified or ridiculous. I accept either."
He did not pose. He simply sat, camel coat open, cream sweater soft under the light, and she clicked. The camera whirred, spit the blank square into her palm. They watched the image develop together—first the ghost of wood paneling, then the shape of a man learning how to share a small room with a stranger who looked like she had stepped out of a department-store window display and decided, on a whim, to take public transit. His buzzcut came into focus. The stubble. The expression caught between surprise and something warmer.
"You're very pale," he observed of the photo, then flushed. "I mean the coat. The—ensemble. Not—you look—"
"Historic again," she said, delighted. "I dressed for the season. White Christmas. Literal interpretation. My colleagues at Bloomingdale's told me I looked like a snowstorm with lipstick. I took it as a compliment."
"It is one." He meant it. Up close, the makeup was artistry rather than armor: the winged liner precise as a signature, the blush soft as a held breath, the contrast of dark pink outline and lighter pink lip making her mouth look like a door she might or might not open. She was stunning in the way certain rooms are stunning—designed, yes, but also lived-in, capable of surprise. The long straight platinum hair, middle-parted with the discipline of the decade, framed a face that knew how to be looked at and had not yet decided whether it enjoyed being seen.