She's like porcelain, he realizes with a start. When you first hold a porcelain cup in your hand, the coolness of the baked clay seeps into your hand, and it warms as your hand heats it up. It feels strong and steady in your hands, solid as the earth it was made from. He picks up her hand, noting the pale, smooth, cold skin that felt like porcelain. She was something that was beautifully made.
But she was as fragile as porcelain. A porcelain cup cannot survive a fall intact. Once shattered, it cannot be put back together. He cradled her hand in his, cupping the appendage delicately, as if it would burst if he gripped it with any force at all.
She was like porcelain. And he had this horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching feeling about her. As if he was watching a porcelain cup fall.