Then I turn and I see death himself come to claim me. The man is tall, slim, and dark. He’s wearing a black suit, flawlessly tailored, incongruous in this barren place. It stands out starkly against the pale flesh of his throat and hands. His black hair, thick and lustrous, frames the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. An artist is always looking at ratios and proportions. His dark, almond-shaped eyes, the straight slashes of his brows, the line of his nose, the high cheekbones and razor-fine jaw, all relieved by the flawless curve of his lips—I’ve never seen such perfect balance.
