She’s a dreamer, a dancer, absolutely divine. She sits at her vanity, back ramrod straight and eyes staring at the reflection in the mirror. Her head turns to the side and thin, tapered fingers reach up drape her head with pearls; a perfectly rounded stud in each ear, a chain around her neck.
She’s a rebel, a reveller, absolutely ravishing. She runs a brush through her pink hair, the fluffy comfort of bubblegum and cotton candy. Her luscious lips blow out a lazy plume of smoke, arching through the air; they twist and flex like biceps and triceps, muscles corded with strength.
She’s a social butterfly, a fragile beauty. She picks up her Blackberry and taps out an e-mail, fingers flying quickly, mind on autopilot. I love you.
She’s a liar.