Signage

A little splotch of red nail polish shines
Against the otherwise unpainted nail;
I seek such small and unintended signs
Of what might be another's state of mind.
She sits beside me, only not all pale
Where reddened by the cold, and trembling.
I do not think that if I asked I'd find
In her a trace of obvious dissembling;
I think she's cold - and she's not wearing much
So that makes sense. I also think she's tired,
Watching her lean against the seat and clutch
That little bag, but I never inquired
Before she stood and trickled her way out.
And yet such signs...do they permit much doubt?