A Smile and Two Bare Feet

Her smile is almost too slight to call a smile. It lives at the corners of the mouth, beneath the lowered eyes, while above them the crown goes on rising, spire after intricate spire. The extravagance stops at the face. There, everything is quiet, though not solemn. Something faintly amused seems to have passed across the lips and decided to stay.

The stone below is full of interruptions. One arm rises into a gesture whose ending is lost; the other stops at a broken edge. A straight joint runs through the waist. Beneath it, the lovely fall of the garment gives way to a rough hollow, and then, suddenly, two bare feet, with the toes still carefully counted. The eye has crossed so many fractures without once losing her. Looking back up, one finds the smile exactly where it was — as though she had allowed all this time for us to notice her feet.