paint me a portrait

Her large, life-less eyes stare vacantly at a spot on the floor, the blood drained from her so-kissable lips.

She lies on her left side on the love-seat, hugging herself; her left cheek resting on the arm-rest; her right hand curled up under her chin; her long, black, voluminous hair, cascading down into a pool over the arm-rest to the floor.

She's wrapped up in a chadar - a black chadar - printed with white roses so small they could easily be mistaken for polka dots. She looks like a shapeless lump of so much of cloth; her legs bent and twisted under the chadar so she fits comfortably between the two arm-rests.

He's transfixed as the picture pops-up before him. For an age, he looks and he looks... until he begins to feel the colors in the black-and-white photograph; until her emotionless face starts to brew a storm in his breast; until her life-less body moves him to restless action.

He opens the photograph for editing. Her lips should have a tinge of pink, he decides.