Buena is pretty, not in the way of a leggy model, but more in the line of a robust California girl, bursting merrily at the seams with good health and cheer. She comes to my shoulders but could probably lift me easily. She is a constant stream of meandering, anlaytic talk, which is directed equally at herself and others.
Her hair is brown, with honest-to-goodness milk and honey highlights earned in the garden, or talking over the back fence with me. Wavy, and cut to the shoulders, I doubt whether it has seen the shears of a true stylist. More likely some immigrant California farm laborer-turned-barber, whom she secretly desires. Her ears are very small and properly upright, and Jerry probably loves them with all his heart. Buena has large, brown Ashkenzi eyes with long lashes. Her face is golden brown and incongruously freckled across the nose and cheeks, as though some errant ancestor had married a goy, perhaps even an Irishman.
Buena has a short, powerful frame carrying large breasts, which are frequently unconstrained. I have passed entire evenings watching my husband make tender conversation, to judge by his eye contact, with those breasts. Her body is a kinetic, lively thing, which seems to carry the potential energy of great height at all times. In the garden, Buena keeps a soccer ball, which she kicks from place to place for occupation between digs.
Buena favors shorts at all times and sleeveless tops, with or without a fleece pullover. She always looks as though she has just returned from a hike, or a camping trip. Her legs are stocky, even meaty–the legs of a soccer player. Her arms are incongruously thin, stringy, and tan, having been exercised only in the garden, and not on the soccer field. Buena’s hands are small and rough, with short inelegant nails.
That’s Buena, from the outside, from my POV. Buena’s insides are another fascinating topic, which I’ll save for another day.
Posted by admin as Uncategorized at 6:42 PM GMT
