She hung on the wall of a small gallery attached to a hotel somewhere behind Piccadilly, in all her gold skinned glory. The things she saw might make a vicar blush but she remained untainted. A veneer of wealth covered what was already perfection. Doing what? Her eyes spoke in music and sex and the curl of her lip said she knew it.
The world as it presented itself was fat and fake, or phoney. She alone was real. Money was flashed indecently, visible only as numbers. This meant nothing to her. She would never go wanting but neither would she want. Those she saw panted and postured, lost as they pillaged.
She wore a silver jacket, offset against her skin. Clothes could never be good enough. Out of frame she held a 1953 ivory finish Gretsch Country Gentleman, a guitar built for her alone.
She needn't have watched, she remained untouched. She might have smiled, in some manner or style. She never would sneer however it may appear.
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