Classic

Hope stands there in that little black dress like trouble in heels. They’re solid black, pointed at the toe, and high enough to make your stomach do a slow flip. You’d marry her right then, probably on the spot, but someone should at least pretend to have self-control. A person can look, though. The lean line of her neck, the face, those eyes catching every glint of light. The dress makes room for her chest like it was measured twice, and her legs go forever, ending in toes that probably deserve their own compliments. One glance and the whole room tightens a little.