Satan

So I'm going down in an elevator in Midtown, and this woman gets on at the next floor, one of those New York ladies, please excuse my Californian ignorance but she could have been from Jersey, Queens, Long Island, they all kinda sound the same to me, she's this kind of permed, acrylic manicured, yet jogging suit, plastic furniture, and macrame plant holder holding carefully tended geraniums type of lady, but not so much that she's fantastic, really, just an ordinary lady, who happens to be checking me out, head to toe, shirt, pants, shoes, hair, facial hair, eyes, eyebrows, scowl, bulge, tilt the head and try to get an outline of the ass, tilt the head more to fully stare at tattoos. After a while of this, and of me staring straight at her wondering why the fuck she's looking at me like this with some weird glazed expression of happiness, and why her head is so tilted and so fixated on my arm, probably wondering about that devil holding a bichon frise number on my right forearm, her face registers an epiphany of sorts. Nineteen floors to go.

"You're goin' for that devil look, aren'tcha?" she asks me, satisfied.

I make out a fickle chuckle and mumble "Uh huh," confusedly. I am in the elevator with a work person that I just met, trying to be polite and pleasant.

"Well, it LOOKS GOOD. Lookin' good," she smiles, even more satisfied.

I was slightly offended at first; my demeanor softened considerably after she paid me this compliment.