Up close, the woman was far less intimidating. Her plain black shoes, casually emerging from the corner of the table, were scuffed, successive layers of rubber worn down to an almost flat sole. Her few pockets bulged, evidently struggling to contain significantly more than the designers had planned for. She smiled as the boy approached, by no means an unpleasant expression, though her teeth did maintain those fearsome points. The whole performance was shattered somewhat by the fact one of them was pink.
"Hey." She called, the unmistakeable hint of a Bretonian accent worming its way into her words. She shook her head madly in response to the boy's question; black hair bobbing back and forth like some demented see-saw. "Cold? Not yet. Give me....." The woman lowered her eyes, checking a non-existant watch. "Three seconds. There. Now I'm cold." She gave a convincing shiver, just to ram the point home.
"Oh, and don't call me Miss. My mother's miss." She really wasn't one to stand on ceremony, if you had something to say, best it was said. Just the formal stance of the boy was enough to irk her a little. "Merissa Wilkinson, at your service." She doffed an imaginary hat.
