Claire de Lune, part I

She was wearing a pale yellow sundress that came to precisely one inch above her knee. It had a silky slip underneath and a sheer layer over it, covered in tiny olive green flowers that danced when she moved. The dress hugged her torso ever so slightly and came out in a flowing A-line that made her look double as graceful when she walked. The neckline dipped in slightly; the sheer straps of it made her bird-like collarbone look elegant. She sat on the aging wood floor with her legs tucked to the side under her. The room caught the light in the most brilliant way, shining onto her brown hair, making it look the color of melted semisweet chocolate. Her locks were pinned up in a messy bun. The room was bare of all furniture; only a wise-looking record player sat in the corner, on top of a few white sheets laid out messily over the floor. The air was embellished with the sweet sounds of Debussy and Vivaldi, playing from shiny black records stacked next to the player. She bit on the end of a wooden paint brush, staring at the white wall in front of her, a black gaze in her eyes, something haunting. The tip of the brush was dipped in a deep red, but she wasn’t painting. The end of the brush had minuscule dents in the wood from her teeth. All that was heard was the sweet lurking sounds of Debussy’s Claire de Lune.