“I can’t believe this,” he said, looking around the bar. A couple, dressed in black, leaned over their small table, conspiring. Kevin admired the curve of her heavy thigh escaping from the black wool skirt, her limb tinted in dark stocking. The young man spoke with his hand curled around his chin, two fingers resting on his unshaven cheek. The pair shared a scowl when a new, too popular song erupted from the bar’s tinny sound system.
Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov