Silent for several beats, I can see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, breasts straining against the white lace material of her dress. She’s more covered up than I’ve ever seen her, the dress little more than a sheath that clings to her like a second skin, but somehow she’s never looked more sinful. Perhaps it’s the context: her, in a wedding gown, standing over her fiancé’s dead body. Yet her only real reaction was to me, as if his death bears no consequence to her.
