Seaside Moors magritte suit

You are Rusalka? He asks, noting the accent and the syntax, just strange but familiar enough to be the linguistic equivalent of skipping a step on your way down the stairs. The wind picks up in one muscleless heave. His hair flaps against his face, his collar open and fluttering, the sallow skin underneath visible through the partings. 

Her mismatched eyes are the only interference in the otherwise lemon and beige symmetry. One brown kiss-curl lies flat against her forehead before it returns back to her pale and vague hairline. She has fox fur on the edge of her mouth, and he thinks he sees it between her teeth. I'm Miranda. I'm looking for a place to stay over the winter... maybe longer. He smiles a perfect computer-generated parabola: Y equals X squared on a Cartesian grid.