Her lips are crazy. That’s the main thing. Crazy. Full, moist. Her mouth is wide, and expressive, shifting from a wry smile to a bemused grin to a pensive purse as her thoughts shift.

It’s hard to imagine looking elsewhere when looking at her but, for the purpose of writing this paean, I forced myself to.

Her brown hair is tousled, long, soft, luxuriant, draping down well below her shoulders. On another woman, her hair might capture my eye, if it weren’t for her lips.

Her skin is caramel, clear. Her cheekbones improbably (impossibly) high.

Her clothes are unremarkable, far less glamorous than her face led me to expect.

She was gone even before I finished this short paean, leaving me to write about the image seared behind my eyes.

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