Her lips are as if drawn by a fine, sharpened pencil. They curve elaborately, into just a hint of a frown as she takes in yet another day’s worth of horrifying news.

Her eyelashes, too, could well be the strokes of a sharp, thin pencil – thirty or forty tiny narrow lines stretching out from below long, smooth lids.

And her nose: it’s delicately curved, approximating a bracket: {.

Her eyes are bright green, with a hint of yellow.

Her neck is long, and opens into her creamy chest, which ends, just at the top of her full breasts, in a black and white patterned minidress.

Her feet sit in black suede flats, and she wears a crocheted green sweater, the holes large enough to give thousands of glimpses of the flesh of her shoulders and arms.

I can’t look away.

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