Duck Lake dirty little secret

Every word she says, every motion she takes, comes from an enigma that Taylor cannot crack through. Perhaps this is why he learns forwards, a detective with a pencil notched in his ear and a notepad in hand, eager and hungry. He watches her hand flutter up to her collarbone like a white bird. Her eyes glint and bat. The languid back and forth of her tail in the water.
Her answer is just as opaque as the rest of her. In any other situation he would've been annoyed— but the porcelain dish of her face gleams in the light, and any frustration is quickly wiped away. Rosina. As she approaches, he realises just how small she is.
Something thrills up his spine. Yes, he replies, with a voice that is more breath than intonation. He raises his hand to just in front of that tasteful white face. Here you are, fräulein.