“He stopped, stood perfectly still, closed his eyes, breathed in the scent. He could catch the thinnest glimpse of a girl in the sliver of air between the curtain and the partition. She was small, dressed in art school standard-issue basic black, with an ass like an upside-down heart. But her hair. Oh, her hair. It cascaded in a fall of loose curls down her back, not red, not blonde, not brown, and yet all of them mixed together, trailing off at her waist. With a pang, he imagined the colors he would have used to paint it, in the years when he could still paint; golden ochre, terra rossa, raw sienna.”
Book:The Color of Light