Perfect In Pink

Hazel Max grips the dark timber railing of a sun-soaked Mediterranean balcony, her lean, tanned figure wrapped in a hot-pink sports bra and matching leggings that blaze against the mustard-yellow column behind her. Below, whitewashed villas and palm trees tumble down a hillside toward a hazy blue horizon, and the terracotta tiles beneath her bare feet are baked warm by the afternoon sun. Her blonde hair is straight and sun-bleached, her gaze steady and cool, and the criss-cross straps of the bra trace an X across her tanned upper back. Perfect In Pink is a postcard that no gift shop could sell, and Hazel is the handwriting on the back that makes you wish you were there.

She leans against the yellow column with one foot raised, the pink lycra pulled taut across her long, slim legs, then begins to shed the set piece by piece. The bra lifts off, the leggings roll down past her narrow hips and endless thighs, and soon Hazel stands at the railing with her back to the camera, entirely nude, hands resting on the dark wood as she gazes across the terracotta rooftops. Her back is a smooth, unbroken line from the nape of her neck to the tight, compact curve of her bum, and the warm light gilds every inch of her slender frame. It is the kind of balcony moment you would replay in your mind for years, and Hazel holds it as though the view belongs to her alone.