The other morning, my mind drifted to the crisp Autumn day after the Don't Look Down conversation. It was the same park with the same friend but every image I latched onto was isolated. The bright red leaf of the vine that twined its way through the metal lattice of the park bench. The chartreuse Osage orange that hung on the bare branch like a tennis ball. The smooth round orange stone in the field of pebbles and rocks. And my friend's hands, so much younger looking than his age and occupation would suggest.
It occurred to me that my hero only sees my heroine in details. Her smooth, round ass. Shimmering, pulsing wings. Small perfect breasts. Red eyes that see through his soul. He doesn't see who she is, only that which will bend him to her will. This could have a lot to do with why I still don't picture her clothing. When Alex looks at her, he focuses on what's important to him.
And that's where life and art meld. Photographs take us out of a moment, highlight an image that gives it significance for the rest of time. Scenes do the same thing. If you're showing it, then it's important.
Nea is a fractured character. And the more she disintegrates, the more Alex will see of her. Her true self will emerge from the wreckage of her identity crisis. Because in her case, the devil, or demon if you will, is truly in the details.