Bloor Line, rumbling home on the last train

Caucasian woman, early 50s, short cropped salt and pepper hair, wearing a navy blue wharf coat, collar upturned, faded jeans and hiking boots. A silver ring adorns her right pinky. She spends as much time considering me as she does the page before her.

The Selected Stories of Patricia Highsmith, Patricia Highsmith (Norton)

About 3/4 through:

When she awakened in the morning, the world looked somehow different--sharper edged and more exciting. It was not the slight nervousness that might have been caused by a hangover. In fact Lucienne felt very well after her usual breakfast of orange juice, English tea and toast, and she painted well for two hours. She realized that she was busy detesting Edmund Quasthoff. Ludicrous, but there it was. And how many of her friends were feeling the same way about Edmund today?

She awoke on her half of the twin bed. The dorm room swayed with every tilt of her head. The roommate had come in at some point. Ahh yes, she remembered now. The wretching. She pulled herself up against the wall and surveyed the scene, a Rolling Stone magazine tear of Sinead O'Connor rumpled behind her shoulder. Balls of clothes, some of them hers. The girl beside her was beautiful. Wavy dark hair, arms up over her head, a Kafka t-shirt barely covering her runner's body, drooling out the side of her retainer. An emptied 26er of lemon gin sat atop the bar fridge, a tray of Tops Friendly Market's powdered doughnuts beside it. She scratched her head, remembered that she'd need to change her tampon soon, and tried to focus on the call she'd made to her boyfriend.