Her hair is blonde. It’s blonder at the ends than at the roots. But it’s blonde.

Her face is pale.

Her skin isn’t clear, it’s not smooth. It’s a little rough. Not unappealingly so. Not at all.

Her hands have delicate, long fingers, with slightly gaudy, unexpected pink polish. Her left one holds a bottle with a healthy (pink) morning smoothie, while the right idly touches her inner thigh. Over. And. Over.

She’s in all black, leggings, top, coat, and on heels that are high.

Her nose, beneath black plastic glasses, is pronounced, jutting out, hanging over a delicate expanse of flesh between her nose and her lips.

Her lips.

These are what catch my eye.

She makes a variety of facial expressions, but they all consist of reconfigurations of her lips, which stay together, never separating, throughout.

She is, by turns, happy, sad, puzzled, curious, irked. Her lips activate dimples. They stretch her cheeks. They spread wide, narrow in, pursed.

They have just a bit of gloss on them. Not so much that I would hesitate before kissing her.

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