She had never imagined a broken woman could look so beautiful. She stopped on the threshold for a moment, not wanting to invade her space just yet.
Sitting on her favourite armchair by the window, she absently watched the world go by while taking what little comfort she could from the safe stillness of her room.
She had both arms around a knee in a loose hug, her fingers interlaced on the soft fabric covering her shin to keep the robe from sliding off her thigh; her other leg dangled limply off the seat, the pale skin standing out sharply against the mahogany floor.
The bright light of the early spring day was starting to dim into a clear evening, casting an orange glow on the white walls and on Bree's tired features. It played quietly on her hair, as if aware and respectful of her feelings. Here and there, a droplet of water shone momentarily on her locks of liquid sunset, and then the light retreated gently behind the curtains, almost afraid of being caught and scolded.
Her hair was drying in gentle waves, cascading languidly on her shoulders, and stray lock had curled itself around the single line of pearls gracing her slightly curved neck. The sober jewels were an element of apparent contrast with the terry cloth robe she was wrapped in, yet, in a weird and exquisite way, they fitted perfectly in the picture; symbol of pride and grace even in defeat.
To hide the truth to the unknowing eyes.
Lynette wondered, as she watched her shattered friend from afar, whether she would ever be able to fully understand the subtle mechanisms of her vulnerability.