Bianca

The gentleman asked Rebekah and Marc to be seated and to make themselves comfortable. He then walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. The couple waited there by themselves for nearly fifteen minutes. At first, Marc sat impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for something to happen. However, after a minute or so, he began looking about. He stood up and walked around the room, studying the paintings, the fireplace and mantle, and other elements of the room, appearing to take a mental note of each of its details. Rebekah didn’t notice any of this as she sat waiting, distracted and anxious as a schoolgirl before a test.
The door opened. And there she stood for a moment that seemed frozen in time, like the opening of a scene from a classic film noir but in color and with no soundtrack. She stood five-foot-three and, by all appearances, perhaps twenty-two years old. Raven hair with the gentlest of waves. Large and bright clear blue eyes, high cheek bones, and perfect, full lips. Fair, nearly ivory complexion with just a hint of blush. She was wearing a short, low-cut white dress that did not hide her figure, which featured a quite modest but perfectly sculpted bust and a generous, but not overly generous, spherically shaped bottom. Her bare legs matched the physical perfection they carried atop a pair of pretty feet clad in white sandals, revealing toenails that matched her fingernails and lips in the color of scarlet.
Neither Rebekah nor Marc said it, but each thought it. Perfect. Perfection. Perfect specimen. For Marc, it was a sense of aesthetics and desire. As Bianca stood there, Marc thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. For Rebekah, it was also at first aesthetics and attraction, then envy, for this young woman made her feel both plain and old. Yet there was something else. Perhaps it was a tinge of maternal instinct. After all, this girl was nearly a decade her junior, and most likely fresh out of college. And, by all appearances, really just a baby.
The young woman walked into the room with what Rebekah saw as an unusual ease and an elegance that bordered on the regal, with the older gentleman in tow. The young woman sat down in a patterned winged-back chair opposite the couple sitting on the sofa. She held a small white leather purse. She opened it and took out a silver case. She then opened it and took out a cigarette. The older gentleman was quick with a light. The young woman took a puff and finally made eye contact with Rebekah.
“I am Bianca Snow,” the young woman said in a very faint yet detectable proper British accent. “You have come to see me?”

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