Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Her hair leans forward, a thick glossy sheet that fringes over her eyes and curves across her face in chocolate coloured repose. Her mouth hangs open, her lips foolishly drooping down as she writes with laborious intent.

Of all things to smell like he smells like candle wax, bouncing in his chair with manic energy, choking and burping on his drink. His hair is thick and looks recently washed.

She has a big butt, her jeans breathless around her body. There are faded stretchy marks across the front. Her hands are small and move with precise grace, a heavy carved ring glinting from her middle finger.

He is tall. Very tall. And skinny, and his sweater has been worn into loose thinness at the bottom; the knit stretched out from countless pullings on and off. His feet are scrubbed, surprisingly light. His nails are neatly clipped, hands and feet, rounded and clean.

Her skin is flawless, glowing like a piece of a full moon, her eyes are almond-shaped. She is wearing pretty feminine sandals. Her toes are painted a gothic black-purple, chipped off her pointed nails.

The back of his head is beautiful; an even hairline and a lovely neck curving with smooth grace into his sweater. His expression is vacant, his features thick and uninspiring.

Mina at 9:47 PM