Red as rust, white as snow... Green as emeralds.
Pale as the moon, she seems almost otherworldly — her immaculate face. The breath-taking curves of her body. She is an oasis of perfection in a world that can only disappoint. When she speaks, her voice is dark like tinted glass. When she moves, art in motion. The swaying of her hips — contrapuntal to that of the voluptuous mass of her auburn hair. A handful of strategically placed leaves that reveal nothing, but hint at everything, afford her a token modesty, and unlike so many redheads, she has nary a freckle, making her emerald eyes seem even brighter, making her seem all the more exotic for it.
And something is so very wrong.
It's not just the way she isn't dressed to the occasion. It's not even that the veins at her wrists have the wrong colour, or that her complexion is healthy only if you're a flytrap. It's just that with a woman like that, it seems so damn easy to let all the questions slip, to let it all slip...