She combines three sparse elements to form a compelling compound.
Element #1: her body
She’s small, maybe 5’2″. Slender. Her muscles aren’t particularly defined. Neither does she have an ounce of fat. She weighs maybe 100, 110 pounds. Her breasts bulge slightly away from her frame, unexpectedly. Her nipples can’t be restrained by the rep layers of fabric between them and me. She has allowed the sun to darken her already-olive skin more than her doctor might advise, but any adverse consequences lie 20 or 30 years in the future.
Element #2: her face
Her eyes, deep pools of brown, take up a larger proportion of her angular, long face than they have any right to, luring mine toward them. Her lips move slightly to mouth the words of “Creep,” being played hauntingly by a talented busker. As they do so, they serve as inspiration to legions of Botox users, who show their plastic surgeons pictures of lips like hers, saying, “Make me look like this!”
Element #3: her clothes
She wears only shades of white. Linen baggy trousers. A thin, light mesh cotton woven shirt/sweater, through which her white lacy cotton bra clearly can be seen, the sleeves short, the neck low enough to reveal that, notwithstanding her above-mentioned B-going-on-C-cup breasts, cleavage isn’t really a thing for her, given how far apart they sit on her chest. Her tanned feet, toes painted white, are in natural leather sandals with the battery minimum material necessary to protect her heel and soles.
She idly touches herself with her hands – nails painted a white that matches her toes – as she reads her phone, her brown hair pulled back insouciantly, her neck, her shoulders, the exposed flat of her upper chest.
Everything about her makes me want to touch her. Gently. Roughly.