Fleas, Ponies, Doctors, Angels

Diana’s shoulders hunched protectively, cradling her chest. Although her eyes met mine, it seemed they were peering through an invisible wall of armor. Pale ivory cheeks were softened by a thin rose blush. Encircling her eyes was the color of ashen snow. Undressed, Diana’s 47-year-old body was well-proportioned with appropriate amounts of flesh hugging her bones, yet it hung without tenacity, somewhat spongy to the touch.