03-25-2020, 11:34 PM
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there's something about her that seems to scream she doesn't belong there.
maybe it's the coat. the fluffy white thing, no doubt cozy and beyond warm, it's nothing special, but there's intricacies in it that insinuate it's expensive. the fluffy hood is too fluffy, the metal of the zipper high quality, the tiny embroidered m.e. at the bottom, by the zipper.
or maybe it's the jewelry you can see if you look hard enough. the silver ring on her pinky, a tiny diamond on it. the necklace around her neck, only a peek of the shiny metal seen beneath the coat. the earrings, each stud glittering like a twinkling little star on each ear.
or maybe it's her face. maybe it's the fact that, even after a trek up the mountain, her hair is perfectly in place, barrel curls too neatly done to be possible considering the distance she'd gone. maybe it's those blue eyes, pale as the sky on a snowy morning, harboring a cool, calculated look. she's pretty, but not stupid. they're the eyes of a woman who's used to breaking men, used to getting her way, used to doing whatever is necessary for it. they're the eyes of a dangerous woman.
but in approaching her, from a hundred feet away, before you can see the embroidered coat or the perfect hair, you know it's off. it's the way she stands, the way she moves. there's an ease, a confidence, a grace to it all. she moves like a ballerina, stands out in the open like she's afraid of nothing. both are equally true of not only herself, but every woman in the family.
anyone who's met the english's can tell one from a hundred feet away. and the mane of sandy brown hair atop her head seems to scream her identification, to anyone who knew them; they were all icy blondes, except marlowe english.
there's something about her that seems to scream she doesn't belong there.
maybe it's the coat. the fluffy white thing, no doubt cozy and beyond warm, it's nothing special, but there's intricacies in it that insinuate it's expensive. the fluffy hood is too fluffy, the metal of the zipper high quality, the tiny embroidered m.e. at the bottom, by the zipper.
or maybe it's the jewelry you can see if you look hard enough. the silver ring on her pinky, a tiny diamond on it. the necklace around her neck, only a peek of the shiny metal seen beneath the coat. the earrings, each stud glittering like a twinkling little star on each ear.
or maybe it's her face. maybe it's the fact that, even after a trek up the mountain, her hair is perfectly in place, barrel curls too neatly done to be possible considering the distance she'd gone. maybe it's those blue eyes, pale as the sky on a snowy morning, harboring a cool, calculated look. she's pretty, but not stupid. they're the eyes of a woman who's used to breaking men, used to getting her way, used to doing whatever is necessary for it. they're the eyes of a dangerous woman.
but in approaching her, from a hundred feet away, before you can see the embroidered coat or the perfect hair, you know it's off. it's the way she stands, the way she moves. there's an ease, a confidence, a grace to it all. she moves like a ballerina, stands out in the open like she's afraid of nothing. both are equally true of not only herself, but every woman in the family.
anyone who's met the english's can tell one from a hundred feet away. and the mane of sandy brown hair atop her head seems to scream her identification, to anyone who knew them; they were all icy blondes, except marlowe english.