The Dark Dreams of a Mortal Woman: Romancing Gothic Poets, Shape Shifting Dream Invaders, And a Hopelessly Romantic Vampire

By L. Alegra Lee

April Moss, a one client CPA, bored with life, living in an equally boring little town in Colorado, appropriately named, No Name, she breaks out of her tired existence by opening a Facebook account under a false identity and reinventing herself. Getting more than she bargained for, April takes a dangerous glimpse into the Dark World of Latin Gothic Poets; meeting Warrior Poets, Witches, Demons, Shape Shifting Dark World Artists, and Lucien L'Strange.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543940022

Book preview

69

Chapter 1

Staring at it, I wondered, now what to do with it? I was staring at it, when it rang! My first ‘Smart Phone’ an Android, a Christmas present to myself, I tried to answer it. Swiping right and then left, many times, I finally gave up when it stopped ringing. It was smarter than me. Why couldn’t the thing have buttons, like my old phone. Technology and I, don’t get along. Then my landline rang. It was Anita Wells Metz, my best friend from… well, I’ve always known her.

You’re home. Why didn’t you answer your cell when I called?

I tried. I swiped in every direction and it wouldn’t answer. I hate this damn thing!

April, you dummy. When you text someone with your new phone number, you put the person’s number in your ‘Contact’ list. Then you not only know who’s calling, it will answer.

Oh! I replied. I still hate this stupid thing!

Ha, ha, ha, was Anita’s response. Funny to her, she was a ‘Cyber Grandma.’

You have an advantage. Your son runs a phone company! I complained.

Not a phone company. A ComTel company. There’s a difference.

Whatever!

Now you sound like my grandkids.

That’s my problem. Never having kids, I don’t have anyone around to show me how this stuff works.

It’s true, Anita said. They’re born ‘plugged in… Besides your damn phone, what else is wrong?

The usual. Facing a new year and it all seems to be the same old thing. Over and over, nothing changes. I miss you. You’re so far away. It’s awful here with you gone.

We stay in contact. That’s always been true.

Yes, but it’s not the same. Not like when we could just get together to chat face to face.

Not the same, I couldn’t read her facial cues and she couldn’t read mine. Those cues were crucial to maintaining our friendship. All which remained now, were nuanced conversations. Time went by, and expected facial expressions faded from memory, mine and I’m sure Anita’s, as well. The friendship was dying, shriveling, like old grapes on a vine.

You should go on Facebook.

Quiet for a while, I mulled this over. Anita was dumping me! She was handing me off to nameless, faceless, strangers. I felt betrayed. It shows how little I knew and how wrong I was.

You still there, April?

Are you on it? I asked, pensively.

Of, course! It’s how I communicate with my son and his kids. The kids use Instagram and other more up-to-date forms of Social Media. Face-to-face stuff. I’ve been waiting for you to get off your ass and get with the program.

If I can’t answer the stupid cell, what makes you think I could get on Facebook?

It’s easy. Go to Google, type in ‘Open Facebook Account’ and follow the steps. Don’t skip anything it asks you to do. Just go with it.

Can I text you if I need help?

You’re not gonna need help. Give yourself some credit. Tim can help you. He must be on Facebook.

He’s got a Website for the business.

For pity sake! You two are Luddites!

I listened while Anita gave me a few more tips on how to get started. She would also send me a link in an email on most often asked questions. I wasn’t hopeful any of this would help.

How’s the job going? I ask her.

It was Anita’s turn to be silent. An indecisive vibration travelled through the phone line from 800 miles away. Maybe I was still intuitive enough to pick up the vibes she was giving out.

My boss, Bruce might be filing for bankruptcy, she whispered.

Anita’s voice seemed to fade away and more silence ensued. Her hushed tone indicated she was still at work. How soon? I finally ask.

It’s still up in the air… but business is terrible. There’s just no water here. What was I thinking going to work for a guy who trades in water futures!

I would think in Northern California, there would be plenty of water. When I went up to see you… it’s so green.

I’m no scientist or a Lawyer, but apparently, there is a battle going on between the Feds and California over water in Colorado. I should have stayed there.

Yes, I thought, selfishly, ‘why didn’t you stay here?’

Your son needed you. You’ve been a big help to him, I said, without enthusiasm.

He’s a big boy. Besides, the apartment I live in now is costing $1800 a month. In a country like Argentina, I could live in a villa for that kind of money.

Now I was silent and Anita asked again, if I was still on the line.

Why Argentina? Don’t move even further away. You’ll find another job.

It’s just ‘blue-sky thinking.’ And I won’t find another job making 150 grand-per-year. Everything is so damned expensive here.

Silence again. I tried to imagine the difference her kind of money might make in my life. A sort of too good to be true difference I pushed from my mind.

You found this job. You’ll find another, you were a paralegal. You have skills.

Not at forty-five, I won’t, she fretted.

And, so it went; back and forth, me half-heartedly trying to give Anita encouragement and she throwing up obstacles in a way uncharacteristic for her. Previous to her current predicament, my friend was the most optimistic person I’d ever known, despite two failed marriages and the death of her third husband.

We said our goodbye’s and I promised to call her again in a couple of days. The last thing Anita told me was, Don’t bother calling me, contact me from Facebook.

‘Nice thought,’ I said to myself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be on Social Media. The idea of ‘teaching old dogs, new tricks,’ ran through my mind.

Chapter 2

A few days later, I was up and running on Facebook. I’d even managed to upload a Profile photo to my Page; one I figured out how to email to my phone’s Gallery App from my computer. This was a photo Anita took of me on my visit over the summer, one I was happy with. I never take a good photo, but this one I liked. Smiling with my mouth closed, like the Mona Lisa, she managed to capture me in a way which didn’t look ‘posed.’ That’s how I started out… as me.

I searched for Anita by touching the Magnifying Glass icon on the top line of my Page. I entered her first, middle and last name where requested on the Search line and up popped her smiling face, her face from twenty-five years-ago. I knew this, because I took the photo up at Hanging Lake, in Glenwood Canyon near where we grew up in Colorado. This was right after her divorce from Bob Young and just before I married Carl Moss. Anita was twenty then and I was eighteen. Despite the passage of time, my friend still looks as beautiful now, as she did then.

Touching the ‘People’ Icon image with the + sign across from her name would let her know, from a distance of 800 miles, I’d made a Friend Request. I’d barely set the phone down on the kitchen counter when it made a ringing tone with a statement at the top indicating Anita ‘Accepted’ my request and I could write on her ‘Timeline.’ Very stupidly, I wrote;

April Moss: Hi!

At such a momentous occasion, akin to Neanderthal’s discovering fire, my own personal breakthrough of entering the twenty-first century, I might have thought of something more profound to write. Mark Zuckerberg would be very disappointed.

My phone rang again, or I should say it made a very melodic ‘pinging’ tone. It was Anita congratulating me on my modern accomplishment. Her Facebook reply;

Anita Wells: Look at you!

And she could; looking at my two-dimensional photo while I looked right back at hers.

It felt the same as when we talked on the phone. The photo lacked motion, the third dimension of communicating as humans. I felt let down. But, my expectations for having a life changing experience, were of course, unrealistic. Facebook is not the cure for cancer, after all.

My disappointment would continue, not between Anita and I, we wrote each other five times a day. It was with my sisters, who I knew were on Facebook, which made these encounters dissatisfying. Either my life was boring in comparison, or their lives were complete fantasy.

Alice, my oldest sister, married a horse breeder she met while at Veterinary Technical School. She’d moved, ‘Up Valley’ to Aspen and joined the ‘horsey’ set while still in her twenties. Like me, she is childless. Fitting, Alice has equine children. Unlike me, she never grew out of the ‘Pony Princess’ stage of life. But life is grand, so grand, and I learn all I need to know about her life at Thanksgiving every year. Reading her Facebook Page is as nauseating as the Christmas letters I get from distant relatives who live in the Midwest. ‘Following’ her Page, lasted about three weeks.

Aileen, a little older than me, lives next door in the small town of No Name. Our kitchen windows face each other. If we open them, we only have to slightly yell at each other to be heard. I looked at her Page, just to say I did so. For her, Facebook is a ‘brag book’ lovingly put together as a tribute to her children, real kids, not the equine type. Life revolves around her kid’s activities. Her two boys and daughter are now attending various colleges on the east side of the Rockies in and around Denver, leaving poor Aileen with ‘empty nest’ syndrome. I made sure to compliment the layout of her Page which she updated frequently to show off her kid’s accomplishments. I followed her, for as long as I was on Facebook… as myself.

Astrid, my youngest sister is a ‘Green Warrior,’ and a general pain in the ass. Her Facebook Page is filled with socialist bromides which run right up to the edge of being subversive. It’s obvious from her Postings on Facebook, last year’s election nearly pushed her to the brink of insanity and into the arms of the ‘Resist Movement.’ Her Posts, the mirror opposite of Alice’s, are just as nauseating. For Astrid, the world is always on the brink of Apocalypse. Luckily, she never attends Thanksgiving dinners, so it isn’t necessary for the family to listen to her ‘Green Agenda’ over deep fried turkey my brother-in-law Greg bow hunts every year. A Vegan, Astrid wears this not as a badge of honor, but as a martyr. I looked at her Page, exactly once.

What I noticed about every Facebook Page I looked at, was the content. Everyone’s Personal Page was filled with family and friend’s photos, inspirational quotes, and in Astrid’s case, counter-culture claptrap. There was nothing on my Page but my Profile Photo. Under Friends, I had exactly four, and in actuality, it was really only Anita. My sisters don’t count.

My sisters and I were friends, once upon a time, like a storybook tale. Together, with Anita, by virtue of the fact our first names all started with ‘A,’ when we grew older, we were known by school mates and friends as the ‘A Team,’ a reference to an 80’s television series. We grew up in a rural unincorporated area of a small town on the Western Slope of Colorado. We were country kids, the children of a cattle rancher and a grass farmer.

We girls were close, like ticks on a dog. We sat at the very back of our school bus every day on the way to Elementary and Middle School, because it was big enough for the five of us to sit together. On holidays and through the summers we played together from sun up through sun down, right after our chores were done, of course. We stood together against all foes, real or imagined. Our lives were idyllic, and then one by one, we entered High School, and everything changed for us. With the exception of Anita and I, the five of us grew apart.

Our lives took different paths and this was reflected by each of our Facebook Pages. Either, I was unimaginative, or my life really was boring. It didn’t appear I’d made any forward progress since High School. But the truth is, I’m too lazy to take the pieces of my life and press them together, like a puzzle. Mine would be a colorless and incomplete collage.

Pointing this out to Anita, she reminded me I could fill out the ‘About’ icon on my Facebook Page. She felt this would be enlightening for me as well as anyone else looking at my Page. The About Page was a Nosy Parker, wanting to know where I went to college, what I did for a living, what skills I had. Skills? There were questions like Current City, Hometown, Phone Number, my Nickname. What was I, twelve? And of course, my Marital Status. Was this Social Media, or a dating site? Anita pointed out, in a way, this was Facebook, in a ‘virtual’ nutshell.

Marital Status… once upon a time, I was married, to Carl Moss. What a sad affair it was, and if he hadn’t had so many, we might still be married. At the time, we lived in a small town where everyone knew our business. Our marriage couldn’t survive the scrutiny. Now, I live with Tim Ross. Both soured on wedded bliss, we decided to live unconventionally, described by my father, quaintly as ‘Shacking Up.’ We have settled for this, for the last fourteen years. It will do.

The About Page wanted to know about my Religion, what Sites I followed, what Movies, Television shows, to what Music I listened, Books I liked to read, and what Organizations I belonged to. Why, I wondered? Maybe I’m cynical, but it all had a very commercial feel about it, and I’m sure, if I filled out this very intrusive Page, I would receive advertisements up the wazoo! Mark Zuckerberg and Company, are not dummies. Still, I wish I’d bought Facebook stock. Of course, I didn’t buy Microsoft, Apple and Amazon when I had the chance, either.

One of the conversations on Facebook about my life Anita and I had was a surprise to me.

Anita Wells: Have you had any strangers make Friend requests?

April Moss: Why would anyone do that?

Anita Wells: Because it’s fun to make Friends… especially with strangers.

April Moss: No. All the requests are pretty one sided, from my end only.

Anita Wells: Fill out the About Page and put something intriguing on your Bio line.

April Moss: Like What?

Anita Wells: Use your imagination or lie.

April Moss: Isn’t that considered trolling?

Anita Wells: Sounds like fun. At least fun to see who’s out there and what they’re into.

April Moss: This sounds naughty. Besides, my sisters would be able to see what I wrote.

Anita tapped me back with an image of an evil troll character rubbing his hands together.

April Moss: What the hell was that?

Anita Wells: Jeez April! It’s an Emoji! People communicate their feelings with them. You download these or click on the Smiley Face bubble next to the Comment bubble at the bottom of your phone screen. They’re free.

Mulling this over I knew I would probably never do this. Not responding to her Anita asked;

Anita Wells: You haven’t explored this fun new toy, have you?

April Moss: A toy? I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, I would have to invent a whole new persona.

Anita Wells: Do that. I did. I have two phones, one with a Friends and family account and one has my account for my… alter-ego.

April Moss: Really?

Then I began to think about what she just revealed and I asked;

April Moss: How come I don’t have access to this Page?

Anita Wells: I didn’t think you’d approve. But, if you decide to do this, let me know. In the meantime, I will send you a Friend Request from my Avatar account.

April Moss: Avatar? Sounds exotically mysterious. Are you blue?

Anita Wells: No! Funny! I’m going to ask you a favor. After I send this for you to look at, either close your Facebook account, or get another phone and open a second account. If you keep your current account, your sisters will be able to look at what I send you as my alter-ego. They definitely won’t approve. And if Tim ever looks at your Page, he’s going to think even less of me, than he already does.

April Moss: He likes you.

Then Anita sent me another character of a yellow Smiley Emoji, laughing it’s head off.

Anita Wells: Okay. I’ll send the request, take notes if you like, once you open the Page to see what my set-up is, then delete my alter-ego from your Friends list. If you decide to do this, close your Facebook account, then open a new one, with the new you. Okay?

April Moss: I’ll think about it. Tim has never looked at my phone and certainly isn’t interested in my Facebook account.

Anita Wells: That’s because he’s too sure of himself. He takes you for granted.

April Moss: He just works too hard. He loves me.

Then Anita sent me another yellow Emoji shrugging and the line;

Anita Wells: If you say so.

Chapter 3

Do you mind getting ready for work early tomorrow morning? Tim asked expectantly. I need to drop my car off at the dealership. I need a lift to the shop.

Applying lotion to my arms, the last task on the unwritten mental checklist of to do items before getting into bed and turning out the light, I looked in his direction.

Sure. What time do you need it in? Then wondering, I asked, What are you having done to it?

Wincing, a look of reluctance on his face, emitting a sigh of resignation, he replied, A bunch of things. There are two recalls, the windshield replacement, and the seatbelt module needs to be replaced. It’s going to be expensive.

It was always something, always a reason Tim never seemed to be able to get out of his time and fiscal hole. If he wasn’t pouring money into his Jeep, he was financially propping up his business with money and his time. A catch-22, he couldn’t have one, without the other.

Looking into his hazel colored eyes, I asked, The dealership will cover the recalls, and insurance will cover the windshield, how expensive can the module be?

Another sigh, and a defensive set to his lips, he replied, Talking with the Service Rep, he said anytime a part has the word ‘module’ in it, it’ll cost a boatload of greenbacks. Tim’s look of resignation returned to his face. With a shrug, he said, The module isn’t covered by the warranty or insurance.

A sad frown replaced my questioning look, and I asked, How much? And how come we can’t just put off its replacement like we have since the warning light came on in August?

Shrugging again, in a tone indicating he thought I wouldn’t understand, The warning light indicates the airbags have already gone off. The module needs to be replaced.

They haven’t. We know that. Can’t we just wait until the spring?

Sure, Tim said, sarcasm dripping off his voice, and if the Jeep slips on the ice on Grand Avenue this winter and I hit something, the airbags won’t go off!

You haven’t answered the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question… how much?

Sheepishly, Tim smiled and replied, Not 64G’s. About eleven-hundred dollars. I can cover it out of the business account. Absently, thinking out loud he said, We’re so busy right now, I’m going to have to stay open seven days a week through spring, just to catch up.

Yes, I thought, Tim is always in catch-up mode. Happy for him, he loves what he does for a living and the fact he only takes his ‘marching orders’ from himself. Owning and operating a picture framing business in Glenwood Springs, CO, he’s made a small business success out of it. So incredibly busy in the last six years, he was able to employ two additional people. Still, he is very hands on, and has a tendency to micro-manage all details of his business.

A good mentor, hovering like a mother hen, Tim puts in long hours not only to oversee and teach his employees, but to work with local artists, of which there are many in the tourist town of Glenwood Springs, helping them display their artwork in the most advantageous way. An artist in his own right, he is building a fine reputation in the Roaring Fork Valley, extending from Rifle, CO, down valley on the Western Slope all the way up to Aspen at the base of the Maroon Bells. In a land of incredible landscapes, wildlife and beauty, there is no shortage of painters and photographers. A great picture needs a good frame, but a mediocre picture needs a great frame.

Tim is skilled at building frames, but less so at building his relationship with me. There seemed to be no time at all for us to get away, to spend time alone as we did when we met in Santa Fe, New Mexico, fifteen years-ago. Back then, he ardently pursued and won me over. He was romantic, thrilling, and ‘great in the sack.’ I miss those days, a lot.

What time do you want to leave the house in the morning?

Wincing again, Tim grimaced, Is 6:30 okay? I know it’s early, but you can go to the Village Inn and have breakfast until you have to open up at the Doctor’s office.

Smiling mischieviously at him, I said, We’ll have breakfast together. This wasn’t a request.

April…I can’t. I’m busy. Hesitantly he said, I have more bad news.

Never having bestowed a pet name on me, such as ‘honey’ or ‘babe’, even ‘hey you,’ Tim only used my first name to address me, if he was annoyed, or if he really did have bad news. Stoic, I waited, for the ‘other-shoe,’ as they say.

The dealership will have the car until Tuesday afternoon… maybe Wednesday noon. So, you need to pick me up from work tonight and I’m going to need your car tomorrow and Sunday.

So, not only would I be alone for the weekend, again, I would be stranded without wheels.

Maybe we could go out to dinner tonight. What time do you expect to close the shop?

"Maybe you could stop at Bargatti’s when you get off work and bring in a take-out pizza. Sonny is staying late with me and this way I don’t have to order a food delivery."

Okay! Anything to get to spend some time with you, I whined.

April! Don’t start!

In a passive-aggressive manner, under my breath, I whispered, I didn’t sign up for this.

In an aggravated tone of voice, Tim growled, Just be ready to leave by 6:30 in the morning… Let’s get some sleep!

Re-setting my alarm and turning out the light, I thought about the first few years Tim and I spent together; those happy fulfilling times, until I fell asleep.

Chapter 4

A Facebook eye-opener, Anita is now someone, I don’t recognize anymore. Using an alias, she is now a member of the Dark Gothic World. Her alter-ego photo is the polar opposite of the woman I know. This image is not her. Her Profile photo has a different shaped face, and long, straight, jet black hair. Wearing heavy pale putty-toned, monochrome foundation, her alter-ego’s upper and lower eyelids are heavily smoke shaded, and her lips are blood red. Her shade of lipstick on highly collagen-laden lips, was the only way I could tell, it was a color photo.

Doing as she asked, I looked at her ‘alter-ego’ stunned by what she chose to become. Absent was her strawberry shade of curly shoulder length hair, and her large kewpie doll blue eyes now were flat black orbs devoid of pupil and iris. In addition, her photo, was of a woman in her early twenties. A beautiful, exotic, Latin featured woman. It was novel, really, but if intent was to become someone else, Anita’s choice fell into the category of, go big, or go home.

Lurking underneath the Gothic image, I suspected is the place where Anita’s true character lives. I confirmed my suspicion when I read her About Page; where she was born, where she now lived, where she went to college, her friends and her interests. Nothing she included on the Page even remotely bore a resemblance to the truth. Anita, or I should say her alter-ego, no longer lives… on this continent, she lives in South America, specifically Argentina, in the city of Buenos Aires. Anita created for herself not only a new persona, but an entire new history!

And her name now; La Contessa Antonia De Alamieda. Mostly, her Profile and About Pages are in Spanish with a smattering of English phrases and short poems scattered about. I had no idea Anita spoke Spanish. There were many images of what I assume are Vampires; men and women in nearly equal number. Despite the number of these images, photos and paintings of these un-dead people with fangs dripping in blood, all were hauntingly beautiful.

I scrolled through page after page of these images and long poems she wrote and sent to various people and the poems, verses and images sent to her from what can only be described as suitors, men and women alike. From the little Spanish I understood, the content of the verses and poems were about love, longing and un-requited love. A great many of the images sent to Anita were pornographic, sin ropa, from men and women alike. There was little left to my imagination regarding the why of these images. A picture is worth a thousand words. She would have to be dead not to ‘get it!’ I guess this was the idea; they claimed to be dead and thought Anita was too.

Eternity and eternal love, and the request for or offering of such, was a common theme of the Vampire missives. Because my Spanish skills were nearly non-existent, I was forced to look up many phrases on my Android tablet through its Google Translator. I was able to get the gist of many of these poetic conversations. So many poems were melancholy in nature, and hauntingly romantic. A splendid image accompanied each poem. Despite the brutal content of many of these images, there existed an exquisite beauty in each photo or painting.

It also appeared Anita was the Ruler or leader of one of these Facebook Groups. In many poems, she was often address as, La Reina. In Spanish, this meant, ‘The Queen.’ It was apparent, at least to me, my friend was more than admired; Contessa Antonia was worshipped by all whose content appeared on her Page. These pseudo ‘Vampires’ pledged fealty to La Reina with every line of poetry. I was stunned!

I shouldn’t have been. The more deeply I delved into Anita’s world, the less judgmental I became. As it is often said, rhetorically, ‘what room do I have to talk?’ The more I gave into it, giving up the ghost of who I used to be, eventually, I turned myself over, body and soul, in a way I could have never imagined, to a Dark Prince of the Vampire world.

Chapter 5

Hurrying home from work, I wanted the opportunity to look over the proofs of the ‘glamour’ photos professionally taken of myself and emailed to my home computer, without Tim knowing… or wondering why? Prior to having the photos taken, by a very discreet photographer in Carbondale, I went into Aspen, to a very expensive salon whose ‘artist’ applied makeup to my face and neck and whose top ‘stylist,’ some sort of ‘coiffure guru’ to many of the rich and famous in and around the celebrity resort, performed an exorcism, (his words) on my lifeless and dull hair. (Again, his words.)

Viewing the dozen glamour pictures on my home computer monitor which the photographer took, proved she was some sort of magician in her own right. The professional hairstyle and applied makeup would have been pointless gestures, if not for Daphne. She dug into the depths, of I’m not sure where, and found a woman under all my vague uncertainty. I did have a soul, and as Daphne said many times during the photo session, a smoking, hot body. Who knew?

Comparing my new ‘look’ with Anita’s, or should I say, Contessa Antonia, I went a completely different route. I didn’t want to choose the image of someone other than myself from a site full of Goth models who all more or less, looked and dressed very much alike. I knew deep down I wanted my new Facebook image to be… me. So instead of going with a ghostly white pallor for my face and neck, I had the salon makeup artist apply more color than I normally wore in public, which was never very much.

The effect was striking. Tanning well, I encouraged the makeup artist to apply a foundation bronze in tone to my face, which she blended down to my shoulders. I was rockin’ the new shade. She applied a soft brown pencil color to my brushed-up eyebrows, after plucking the almost Frida Kahlo-like monobrow from between my eyes, which I wasn’t rockin’ so much.

Sponging a dab of taupe shaded eyeshadow, not too heavy or theatrical, to my eyelids, the makeup artist then added a set of false eyelashes over my upper lashes, brushing them with black mascara. A dramatic touch, my dark brown eyes appeared as deep pools of water. Not flat, dull orbs, as Anita’s Gothic eyes appeared in her Facebook photo. My eyes looked alive, and seemed to say, I’ve seen things.

Using a brush, the makeup woman swished it around in a pot of pressed rouge the color of red clay called Deep Umber, which resembled the earth all around this area of the Roaring Fork Valley. A very good job of it, it was if she waved the brush over the apples of my cheekbones, barely touching my skin, but seemingly encouraging a prominence to them, high-toned indeed.

Her final touch, lipstick. Using an almost sharp, stiff brush, she outlined my lips, telling me what a wonderful break I possessed, in a deep cherry red color, which she then filled in the outline with cream lipstick the same color from a tube to my otherwise naked lips. Asking what she meant by ‘break,’ she replied, It’s the space under your nose. Yours shows how plump and beautifully shaped your mouth is. Pointing at my lips she continued her description, The break at the top of your lips is very pronounced almost sharp and is the ridgeline which forms the top lip. Yours is well defined, the ridge-like lines flowing down from the center of each nostril. This feature allows an effortless application of lipstick. Again, who knew?

Prior to the