Winter gazed through the far window, watching the leaves fall. They fluttered and danced, the wind picking their way, turning them over and over for the light to catch. Auburn reds and dappled golds shone on the warped windowpane.
She placed her book neatly on the varnished table and continued to stare out at the cold May sky. Her hair was messy, pulled up loosely into a knot at the crown of her head. Blonde tendrils had escaped, creeping softly down to her thin, angular jaw. Her skin was pale, but shone with a pearly, almost ethereal glow. The hands resting on the creamy wool of her skirt were fragile and delicately formed, but the palms strangely rough and callused.
She always kept them covered, rarely shaking hands with new acquaintances, preferring the distant, cold glamour of an insincere air kiss.