Her shoes are moccasins; brown and white with cows hide patterns. No socks. Her pants are mocha chocolate crushed velvet, her parka the same color of her gloves, brown. Her well-manicured nails hang delicately from the finger holes, mid-knuckle up.
Her face has that familiar heavy touch to it, the one that comes with money and age. Taught past the cheekbones, inflamed auburn lips, and a broadened upper lip below a possibly natural nose. Lines just barely exist within the crevices of her cheek. Much of it is hidden behind over-sized Chanel glasses (also brown).
She is taking a picture of this face with her camera phone. Slowly and thoughtfully, she turns the phone around and extends her arm. She frames it quite right, modeling plainly with only the slightest pouting of her lips. She swivels the phone back around leisurely, without a moments haste.
And she examines herself. She takes in the full picture in that sub-conscious split-second before eagle eying particular features. She lifts her glasses just above the eyelash for an unmolested view. It is unclear whether she is discriminating, but she lingers long enough to have made certain age-old criticisms. She must be satisfied to a certain extent, because she puts away her momentary mirror and fails to produce a compact or do anything to her face. Perhaps she has done enough already.
