If you look at her in the moonlight, you can see blue river ribbons under her skin.
she had gnarled hands, like I did, but mine were hard and brown and sun worn tree bark...hers were crumpled paper and blue-pulse pounding. There is not the smoothness of youth in her face, nor the wisdom-laden parchment wrinkles of the old. Only the gaunt craters of her cheekbones, the valleys of her eyes--she was the moon, this woman. Plain and white and inoffensive, until you got close; and then suddenly she was a conquest to be made, cratered and valleyed and virgin. She was the moon, and men fell over themselves to touch her, to be the first man to mine her, and to say that for one glorious moment, he walked all over her.