She’s in her mid-30s. Spectacularly, purely, pretty. Not beautiful, not hot. Pretty. Pleasant to look at. More than pleasant. Compelling. Nearly perfect, somehow, in a preternatural way.
She sits talking (an eastern European language I don’t recognize) to her boyfriend, slovenly, curly-haired. He’s unshaven. His jeans are tattered. His t-shirt is stained, and hangs out, spilling with his belly, over his jeans.
In the movie, she might be played by Mariel Hemingway, circa 1981. He would be played by Jack Black.
Together, they’re adorable, affectionate, evidently very much in love. Laughing, whispering, talking, kissing. They don’t notice that I – and everyone else around – can’t stop staring at her.
I should describe her: her hair is at the midway point between brunette and blonde. It’s shiny, straight, just past shoulder-length. It looks like it was designed to fly out perfectly in the wind of a fan.
Her eyes are hazel, and her skin is milky white, perfectly clear. No make-up. High cheekbones. Her lips are full, her teeth perfect – straight, white. But the physical characteristics of her mouth are overshadowed by her expressive, gleeful smiles and laughs.
Her fingernails, perfectly manicured, short, are rust – a rust that matches perfectly her billowing silk trousers.
Between her pretty face and the trousers is the hardest part of her to ignore. She wears a sheer, white blouse, with just a little lace above her cleavage. Underneath, a sheer white bra, with just a little lace detail. The brown of her aureolae is visible through the layered sheer fabrics.
I can’t look away. I’m a 17-year-old boy.
I force myself – FORCE myself – to look down, and I see, on her feet, black felt slipper shoes with a gold cat face on each, the little triangular ears extending three-quarters of an inch up, over her bare foot.
So. Fucking. Cute.