She dances in the tram common in her pink ballerina shoes and her tight jeans, and she's a gypsy, they say, a pirate, a witch. She dances at the beach, and people throw their munny off of Sunset Hill, where it lands in the ocean, green and gold and far-off like a sunken ship.
Olette watches her braid her hair with chocobo feathers and beads, sitting in the back alley with her slippers off and a jacket on, bright pink satin. She looks like trouble, Olette thinks, like a thug, like a thief.
She asks for her name, and she tells her it's Penelo.
Penelo the dancer from the tram common, from the beach. Olette tells her her own name; she's Olette from the usual spot. The place below the trains with the posters and the boys and sewer drain.
The next day Penelo's in the usual spot, lounging on the couch, slippers on and jacket off, tattoos of ships and flowers and the shapes of white magic running up and down her arms.
"You wanna see me dance, Olette from the usual spot?" she says.
Olette says yes.
