She rules with an iron fist

Oh, Williamsburg. Waiting for the L at the Bedford stop late on a Saturday night is always a fascinating visual experience. I always seem to miss the Manhattan train by a minute and end up having to wait ages for the next one, so there’s usually ample time to people-watch. There are usually some genuinely interesting-looking people hidden among the crowds of Urban Outfitters devotees.

This young lady was standing by herself a few paces in front of of me, waiting for the train with the air of someone too well-bred to let on how impatient they are. She looked positively majestic with her soft suede boots and heavy, fur-trimmed cloak, which swished about her knees every time she shifted her weight. And then I noticed the little tiara of spikes peeking out through her hair. Had I spotted the fabled Underground Queen? Perhaps. She rides the rails all night long, kissing babies and dispensing metro cards, a royal retinue of grotty subway rats trailing behind. Long may she reign.

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