The nails tapping the desk in front of her were black. Black, black and only black. Sometimes Zach wondered if she owned any other color of nail polish other than black. Maybe she mixed her own, from all the Technicolor shades on the store shelves painstakingly into a bottle till it was a thick dark color she liked. Like a mad scientist in a movie mixing violent chemicals to get the reaction he so desired.
They do stand out though, against the wood of her desk, the white of the paper. They make you look at her hands and never look away, the way an extraordinary ring might, or a delicate silver bracelet. It's not until everyone begins to leave that he realizes he's wasted a whole period staring at Magenta's hands. Well, maybe not totally wasted.