I found myself thinking about what kind of socks she might be wearing. The shadowed white could be seen just below the hem of her jeans and the just above the ankle curves of her tennis shoes. I wondered if they were the kind that had gray toes and heels, or maybe had holes torn into the bottoms from over wear, or maybe from snagging them on a nail somewhere. I wondered if they stopped just above her ankle bones, or if the elastic tops hugged her calves, or even her knees. As far as I could tell, they were white, just white. But somehow, for some reason, I knew there were small tears on the dust blackened heels hidden inside her shoes. And somehow, everyone else knew it too and that was why they judged her more harshly - with sideways glances, never inviting, but always brimming with unsubstantiated hostility.