“Framed by the threshold, she was like one of Mucha's Seasons: the tingle of Winter, the seduction of Spring, the kiss of Fall, the warmth of Summer. She shrugged out of her coat, her violet hair spreading like ink across her loose white tee. Her lips were so red, stained like cherries, the tart kind that grew by his father's childhood home. Vishnya--- the word came back to him, his dad handing him a newsprint pouch, soft fruit inside. He almost dropped the kitchen towel.”
Book:Aftertaste