She looks like she smells fresh.

That’s right. She looks as if she smells like a combination of Ivory soap and baby powder.

She’s white, blonde. Her hair is nearly platinum, but natural, just brushing against her shoulders as it hangs. Her skin isn’t tan. She’s not pale, but she’s certainly not tanned. Her eyes are blue, her smile, big, friendly, improbable.

She’s dressed unremarkably, not even that flatteringly: old jeans, soft, cuffed at the ankles, revealing some inches of flesh above her tan, mesh, flat shoes. On top, she wears a white cotton tank under a pastel plaid soft cotton Oxford shirt. The only hint of overt sexuality is her cleavage: the Oxford, wrinkled, is unbuttoned, and the tank frames a tight “V” between her C- or D-cup breasts.

She gets up to leave, shooting me a smile as she rises, and I watch her as she recedes.

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