There’s a woman sleeping down the hall.
Her hair isn’t golden or flaxen or any of those perfectly
descriptive words. Her nose isn’t slight or bold. Her body
isn’t proportional or buxom. Her lips aren’t full,
are also not lacking. Her cheekbones are not defined or flat, but her
eyes. Her eyes are full of gray, but really, that only means that they
are neither light nor dark.
She isn’t particularly striking in any way. Which is why she
doesn’t threaten me. She doesn’t frighten me. I am