Woman on train

I was on the subway
I was staring at the dim-lit woman across from myself, an unfocus posture born to creak the spine, glaring at her novel, it was unclear to see what she sort she was reading from, her hands tapping along the spine-petting the book as her eyes met the lines, it was obviously worshipped book torn in and out, loved or hated? She was believed to be fairly old, covered in lies and gossips that had scorned her face with a gory look, wearing a yellow raincoat who was busying eating up her gatherings specks of rain she had collected from travels, perhaps from storming to the train or because she couldn't keep her head out that goddamn book walking here.
She reeked of the sour smell of a mother, she obviously had children or life had been kind and gave her the face of an overworked racehorse- and flamboyant stigma of one, curled up with a fucking book on the subway, who do you think you are?
What superiority do you find yourself of?
Dumb dog, you can't speak to others so you do it with physical enactments, how pathetic.
My mind wearies far off, the openness of my surroundings, the argument of gruffs when the bumps are met, it was simple to lose yourself,
It was busy, obviously, it was, it was midday on a Wednesday unless we'd all gone to sleep and woke up suddenly alive and happy, then id expect you to linger otherwise on that query.
"Excuse me?", A distant tone addresses me across from me, the voice was weak and begful,
God another fucking conversation, here we go.
"Hi" I smile pearly whites and all, to that hag who previously toggled my mind, the book was away; a great success to her finally being somewhat approachable, I could see her portrait no longer just a snapshot in an art gallery, I could see her. She wasn't as old as I intended, a bit younger though still a face for a gravestone. A pink scarf flung over her shoulders, to weigh down the broadness of her shoulders but making it so much more obvious to a billboard of the insecurity of her large shoulders, a grey-toned top, cheap. The fabric already fleeing from its pattern, alongside with some hideous jeans, you'd think of a woman like of such sort would at least picked up a fashion sense throughout the henches she'd been dragged through with nature fueled hair like that.
"I can hear you" She giggles, sitting beside me, the book still peaking out of that bag, that fucking book.
I frown my wrinkles, slicing back my hair in its natural state.
I was confused and she knew that
"Mhm?" I speak,
My God, emphasize woman.
"I can hear your thoughts and the book is Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, and if I bother you so much Mr Dickson you should start working later hours then you might finally be able to get the Mercedes you've wanted since you were eight and you wouldn't have to trouble yourself with racehorses like me" She chums up to my aura and my thoughts, rinsing out my attention with her. Only her.
She hops off the train and that was the last I ever saw of her.

Sorry if this is patchy i wrote late- will edit in morning :D