Of course, I have no idea what she looks like. I never do any more.

Her eyes are hazel, with bright, clear whites. She looks, long, at me. As I do her. Is she smiling? Am I? I can’t say with certainty.

Her hair, brown, is straight, or was, until she curled it just a bit, the last twelve inches or so, from her chin to her nipples.

Her plain white mask – it looks more functional than fashionable – covers every bit of faceflesh, from just below her eyes to her neck. I know nothing of her complexion, her symmetry. Her mouth. Her nose.

Her face’s shape, top to bottom, is elliptical. That’s what I got.

Her dress, an orange, floral minidress, allures. It ends high on her muscular thighs, which lead to slender, firm, fit legs. Her feet – the left sports an ornate red rose tattoo – rest in strappy white leather heels, nearly, but not quite, stripper heels. Four, maybe five inches. Her breasts are C cups, and the dress clearly would prefer B’s. To my benefit.

She sits forward. Erect. Doesn’t glance at the phone that presumably sits in her cheap-looking white leather purse. Which matches her shoes.

I would kill to see her face.

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