She’s the kind of girl I’d love to be. Class is not just some abstract cultural construct when you see her walking down the street. You can feel it. She’s better than you.
With that turquoise bag all flat, just for show. No baggage. No receipts. Just a stick of gum and her black card. Black lining around every curve, every hemline,
Cinched at the hip. That cool, cool silk brushes against her skin like that nighttime sea breeze at the end of summer; like the steam off an ice cube. A banana popsicle out the freezer and into your mouth.
Pretty purple flowers, maybe, on a background colour that doesn’t have a name.
She doesn’t do pilates, or yoga, or even know what Starbucks is. Tall, Grande, Venti. Naturally godlike is what you’d call it – her figure. It’s the truth. No one could look as good as her.
A few words dedicated to this S/S2012 look by Emporio Armani. Not supposed to be like fuckyeahmenswear. Let me put it to you this way: I’m just paying homage to his prose.