"How do I look?" she asks, a typical female question, without turning. I sit on the bed, legs crossed, smoke curling from my lips and from a cigarette that rests in the ashtray on the nightstand.

Sometimes I like to watch her do the mundane day-to-day preparatory stuff -- the washing and brushing of hair being the highlight, to me, as she runs a black comb through blonde hair and secures it in the back. It's elegant in her own way, a ritual, and being able to witness it helps attenuate my proclivity for thinking of her as somehow superhuman.

Walk into a mall on any given day and observe the multitudes of style that women fashion for themselves in an effort to be more attractive, an inclination that starts somewhere in high school and becomes more cemented as they get older, more experienced. It seems the pretty ones can look good no matter how they dress -- sundresses, sweaters, overalls, tank tops, jeans, designer clothes, generic vintage, all somehow integrated and woven together into a genre that each considers their own vogue, and somehow, it works. But once they've solidifed their place in the fashion strata, they often remain there, and it isn't often you can find a girl who can oscillate between styles at will. The hip-hugging, platform-wearing type will suddenly seem bizarrely out of place if she deviates too much from her cosmopolitcan chic.

But once in a while you find the girl who can complete the utterly bohemian look or the evening-wear mood, a rarity. She was one of these -- as much at ease in an urban environment as on a fashion runway, with no special contrivances or accessories needed. When I met her, she was peering through a quarter-operated telescope on San Fransisco Bay, looking at Alcatraz in the distance, with off-the-shelf jeans and a black tanktop, and combat boots suitable for clomping around the wharf.

"Well?" she queries again, turning now to address me. In a simple white fleece pullover and dark blue jeans, bare feet and blonde hair, she's maybe the most versatile girl I've ever seen. A quick selection of footgear would make her ready for just about any situation, able to glide into a room with her high cheekbones and casual flaire.

"You've got the moves to rule the world," I tell her. Satisfied, she turns off the lights, and we head out the door, her shoes forgotten, but somehow, I doubt that will make a difference.