She’s rocking a 70’s look.
Bell-bottomed jeans, low-waisted, no belt, her iridescent toenails (in sandals) peeking out from beneath the too-much denim pooling around her feet. She wears a horizontally ribbed beige cotton tank top, and her breasts, C-cups, are too big for the tank she’s bought. At the shoulders, where the fabric ends, her black lacy bra extends just a bit further, leaving a clear impression of the pattern, and ending just before the stubble, a day old but no more, in her armpit. At the bottom, too, her tank top ends just before the waist of her jeans. I imagine the black lacy thong, matching her bra, but I can’t quite see where it starts.
Her hair, brown, shiny, full, hangs down to her belly button, interrupted across her forehead by perfectly neatly cut bangs. Her hair has so much body that I can’t really make out the cleavage her tank top’s low cut makes inevitable. I find myself remembering shampoo commercials from my childhood.
Her lips are glossy, full, lush. Her eyes, hazel, with just a hint of black pencil enhancing their shape.
Her fingers, nails matching her toenails, clutch her iPhone, the only visible concession to our current decade.