Lizzy is the ultimate fantasy: a golden-haired object of desire, fresh and uninhibited.
"Who was she?" That was the first thought that came into my mind when she opened the door. Had I seen her before? Out in the world? Yes, I had. She was the flawless Mormon girl who you stare at obsessively during Sacrament meeting wondering what it would be like to photograph her, paint her, reach under her skirt and touch the silk of her naked thighs. The thought of pressing your lips to hers seeing if her face was as soft as it looked --- babyflesh.
Her skin was too evenly tanned all over. I could see it peeking from behind her black silk robe. Careful rosy pink lip gloss, probably done with a brush, and her hair, shoulder length, was almost platinum.
She may have been a model. Those young things who market the teenage look till they're 28. The mouth was full, but puckered, real babymouth. She had the look all right, but it was something about her eyes. Exotic somehow; almost Asian. They didn't quite fit, which made her beauty untenable. No, she didn't quite fit here. And, in the soft light of the hotel lamp she suggested an imaginary being, "Am I dead? Is this Eden?"
Something prophetic in that thought, but she was very real, more real perhaps than I ever was. My God, she was lovely.