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Amo’s skin is milky pale, her eyes shiny like a glittering sky—orange like the sunset—her hair fanned out around her head on Rudo’s pillow. There’s her ribs, the jut of her hip bones, the fat above and on her thighs, and her round breasts and the long lashes and the pubic hair between her legs, where she’s shifting her hips back and forth in what might be nerves, where she’s biting her lip.
Rudo’s blood is rushing in his ears, in his cheeks where they’re burning; “You’re beautiful,” he says.