She sits dead center, framed from her upper body down to just above the knees. Real pores stay visible, a slight redness lingers around the nostrils, and faint freckles rest across the cheekbones. Her lips don’t match perfectly at the corners, which makes the face feel more believable. One eyebrow naturally lifts higher, the hook you remember, paired with a sidelong look from beneath her lashes that measures distance before it meets you. Her spine stays upright while the shoulders draw in a touch. A phone has just been flipped face down at the table’s edge, and her fingertips still hover midair, the motion not yet finished. The black cropped trench holds a crisp line at the shoulders, while the beige fine-knit top softens at the neck and collarbone where right-side light falls and shadows stay clear but gentle. A deep wine high-waisted skirt pulls into real creases where her legs cross, showing subtle twill and a hint of wear. Behind her, wood shelves, a worn leather sofa corner, and a brass floor lamp recede into warm light, while a fogged window lets streetlight blur into quiet.
