Here is my best shot . . . . .
Woman, beautiful woman, the song goes. At first glance, she
looked eighteen, maybe twenty; looking her square in her face, she still looked
eighteen but could have been forty. Or a hundred and forty. She had the
agelessness of perfect beauty. Like Helen of Troy, or Cleopatra. She was a
tawny toast colour all-over without a hint of bikini marks and her hair was the
same shade two tones lighter. It flowed, unconfined, in graceful waves down her
back and seemed never to have been cut.
She was tall, and light in weight. Not fat, not fat at all
save for that graceful padding that smoothes the feminine form, shading the
muscles underneath - she carried herself
with the relaxed power of a lioness.
Her shoulders were broad for a woman, as broad as her very
female hips; her waist might have seemed thick on a lesser woman, on her, it
was deliciously slender. Her belly did not sag at all but carried the lovely
double-domed curve of perfect muscle tone. Her breasts jutted firmly out and
moved only a trifle when she moved, and they were crowned with rosy brown
confections that were frankly nipples, womanly and not virginal. Her navel was
that jewel the Persian poets praised.
Her legs were long for her height; her hands and feet were
not small but were slender, graceful. She was graceful in all ways; it was
impossible to think of her in a pose ungraceful. Yet she was so lithe and limber
that, like a cat, she could have twisted herself into any position.
Her face -- How do you describe perfect beauty except to say
that when you see it you can't mistake it? Her lips were full and her mouth
rather wide. It was faintly curved in the ghost of a smile even when her
features were at rest. Her lips were red but if she was wearing makeup of any
sort it had been applied so skilfully that it was difficult to detect -- and
that alone would have made her stand out, for that was a year all other females
were wearing "Continental" makeup, as artificial as a corset and as
bold as a doxy's smile. Her nose was straight and large enough for her face, no
button. Her eyes were endless emerald pools, soft and friendly.
A breeze carried her womanly fragrance like a beacon,
signalling, “I am woman, I am beautiful”!
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