Bloor Line, late on a Friday night

Caucasian woman, late 20s with long, dark hair, wearing a skull and crossbones cap, flesh-toned blouse with gathered shoulders and a turquoise choker necklace. She chews her gum, swallowing often. Across from her is a man struggling to keep a bunch of balloons, green and white, from wandering. One has a crude drawing of a goofy face, the eyes crossed, the tongue sticking out. He tries to pretend it hasn't just knocked into the older man sleeping beside him.

The Cold Moon, Jeffrey Deaver (Pocket Star Books)

Page 160:

Dismay is easily recognized in a person's face but it can arise in response to many different emotions--sympathy, pain, disappointment, sorrow, embarrassment--and only kinesics can reveal the source if the subject doesn't volunteer the information.

That morning, she'd sat across from him at the kitchen table. He snapped the paper, the top corner falling forward. Snap. She studied her grapefruit, the way she held her spoon, the line of veins across her newly tanned hand. She tried to recount how she'd earned those veins. Was it from typing at night? She'd like that. Or possibly from all the hands she'd taken into hers, guiding patients from their beds to their walkers, offering them an arm and companionship. Snap. Her face must have changed then because he put the paper down and stared.