I really like this shot. You can just tell she’s dripping with charisma.
You see a girl like that, and her magic hurts your soul. You know damn well you’re a thoroughbred, but still — she’s a fucking unicorn.
Effortless style. Accessorized perfection. She’s somehow greater than the sum of all those flawless parts, and no doubt she probably shits glitter with a French accent.
You take note of each piece. You take note of each brand. You do the math and stand in front of that dressing room mirror in your mind’s eye only to realize that her outfit wouldn’t make you a unicorn. It’d make you a horse with a designer stick on her head.
My usual move is to bum a smoke from her. That way, I get a closer look at her bag and a little eye contact that tells me whether I can ask her where she shops.