She’s in her mid-twenties. She’s 5’4″. Her face is angular, long. Her skin, olive. Her eyes are hazel, brownish. She’s wearing no makeup, she looks natural, in a compellingly sexual way. She is reading the Times on her iPhone. She’s engrossed, not happy, not sad. Just engrossed.
Her slacks are black, cotton. Not tight, not loose. I can’t make out much of her form, because she’s wearing a thigh-length beige cashmere cardigan, hanging open, obscuring the curves beneath.
Except her breasts.
The cardigan is shoved unceremoniously to the side by her breasts. They’re big, but proportionate. They’re round. They’re incredible. I can hardly look away.
They’re under a nearly sheer black blouse, and a tragically opaque black bra. But they could not be more perfectly framed by her cardigan, and accentuated by the necklace and headphones dangling in the space between them, ending an inch below the bottom of her bra.