Myra isn’t beautiful in the conventional sense, she doesn’t fit the mould. Her real beauty lies in things no-one notices, in the shape of her ears, for instance, behind which she tucks in her hair with a two-fingered movement, breathtaking in its grace. In the slant of her collarbones, from where her honey warm skin falls away in the most absurdly tender plane. And her eyes, those great wide hazel eyes with their thick fringe of lashes. Looking as though she can look right through me, but of course she can’t. Above all, her beauty lies in her unaffected ignorance of her own charm.
WC - 400