Everybody looks out-of-place somewhere. Liz stood out to me, because I couldn't shake the feeling that she'd look out-of-place anywhere.
Her careless brown hair pulled back into a messy bun and her youthful, makeup-less face proclaimed her a college student, but the careful and expensive lines of her skirt and the quality of her leather high heels hinted at a professional career. (The obvious age and subtle repairs to said shoes didn't speak well for that profession's salary.) Her shoulders were straight and serious, as were the delicate wire-rimmed spectacles perched carefully on her nose. Yet the look in her eyes—there was a softness there, and a keen intensity, as if she was taking everything in, and it was threatening to make her laugh.
Needless to say, I was impressed: very few people were a mystery to me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd met someone who left me wanting more. I'd only had one glimpse of her shy, honest smile, and already I wanted to buy her a drink. Of course, it was out of the question; don't get personally involved with people while you're living under an alias. It was one of the first rules.