A woman sitting next to me

The woman sitting next to me has burn marks on her hands. As she sleeps, I let myself stare, trying to figure out if it was a cooking accident or more. She sat down quietly, but her eyes grazed me with malignant anger. She is awake now. I turn away, look out the window. Reaching for the phone the sleeve of her business jacket lifts,revealing a neat row of round burn marks all up her forearm. Was she hurt as a child? Was it a husband, mean boyfriend, crazy sex fetish? I try to catch the title of the book she's reading for clues. It's just some mystery novel. I can tell I'm making her uneasy. I go back to my writing. She looks so hard like a lot of women in here. Dark secrets haunting her insides, softness sucked out, a deep sadness in her eyes. I sit and ponder, amI staring at my past? my present? or whom I will become.