I spied her on one my lonely walks in the depths of South London. She walked like she had something to lose, but I couldn't tell what. She didn't glance in a straight line, but rather rapidly darted her glare across different spectrums. Her eyes were squinty, looking for a reason to remain alone. Her nose crinkled at an alarming rate, as did the unruly pace of her steps. Her hair was a rather jaded shade of auburn, which flowed messily with the wisp of the October wind. It was deceptively thin and smoky. Her mouth was small like a toddler's. Her chin was non-existent. She had faint lines on her forehead and inner cheeks-they cried out for a stress-free commute. Her neck was slender and featureless, as was her waist. Her chest was understated, a recycled labyrinth of dissatisfaction and indifference to intimacy. She wore a mild yellow jumper, that wanted to be a turtleneck but instead squandered the look. It was not ironically unfashionable, nor chic in any sense. Her hips moved with distrust and a brusque London stiffness that gave her a savage ora of defensiveness. Her jeans looked old and worn, like they should have been discarded circa 2007. They only loosely gripped her lower figure, giving her a paradoxical leg length and height. The legs themselves were straight-edge and relentless. The jeans abruptly cut off near the ankle, in an awkward spot known for nothing in particular. A tiny glimpse of her off-grey socks gave away nothing. She sported black, chunky boots with blocky heels. Her skin was notably pale, with the blessing of dozens of freckles, but not hundreds. They splattered her fair complexion with indiscriminate care. There were clusters, like constellations of the soul, and lone wolves that guarded the heart. I wanted to paint every single one.