She smokes filtered Virginia Slims and watches me from beneath long, curled eyelashes painted with Revlon black mascara. Her eyes reflect blue off the streetlights from outside the window, but I know they’re really brown. A dark brown you’d think she was ashamed of. Her cheeks are powdered with some high-class expensive stuff you can only import, and her lips are full, tucked behind the lustrous deep red. It matches the rubies on her ears, and the rubies around her neck. It even matches the tight black dress she wore to dinner that night.
She’s saying nothing, softly smoking the cigarettes, her brown-blue eyes betraying little of what she’s thinking, and I imagine she’s a statue. A portrait painted by an artist long dead, in the era of time where perfection and realism was key. She’s a picture that belongs to me, the ideal woman, the ideal human being, and she takes a long, elegant drag of the cigarette, that perfect mask that is her face not cracking even as she says, “This isn’t real.”