Her voice is haunting.
She strums her guitar – old, beat up. Her fashionable pink mask calls attention to her (tiny, piercing and bright blue) eyes, and arouses hunger to learn about the nose, the lips, beneath.
Her top – grey, silken – is buttoned low enough to tempt wandering (leering) eyes. The sleeves similarly hang low enough to tempt those same eyes.
Her denim shorts are short. Really short. Her legs are taught, firm. Not slender, but without an ounce of fat. A couple of tattoos grace her calves.
When her mask comes up so she can sip her beer? I don’t know what to say.
Somehow, all the parts are spectacular. High cheekbones. Defined, shapely lips. But there’s something almost uncannily… not hot… about the sum of the parts.