She was a poet. A poet that had been the unfortunate victim of an assault and mugging on the 1500 block of Wilkes Avenue at approximately 11:30 in the evening. The assailant made off with the girl's vintage purse, seven dollars in cash and a worn copy of An Anthology of Rust Belt Verse, 1975-1994.
In the fluorescent confines of the fourth precinct, a sketch artist sat before this delicate, button-eyed twenty-something and peered over the binding coils of his bright white pad of paper. His first question to the young girl was in regards to the shape of her attacker's face into which he'd start filling in features.
"It was the shape of the universe," she said. "No edge. No beginning. All dark matter, nebulous hues and lost souls. Riddled with shrinking red giants and mountainous black holes. A face of infinite fright yet one I could not look away from. It was the shape of everything. Of nothing. The shape of things to come."
The blank page mirrored the sketch artist's expression. Other questions only elicited similarly cryptic couplets. He attempted to trick the girl into clarifying herself by offering a few easily rhymeable adjectives she could use; asking whether the man's face was round or ovate, wide or long.
The girl closed her eyes, thinking back to an hour ago on a dark street when a random crossing of paths turned into petty theft. "It wasn't long as much as it was longing. Longing for a ghostly kiss perhaps from a mother born remiss."
This poor girl was still in shock from her recent traumatic experience, the sketch artist thought, and she couldn't string together a straight answer. So he decided to just start drawing, letting not the words, but the sounds of the words, guide his pencil.
The poetess prattled on about eyes like coffee, liquid and lightless, keeping her awake in the waning brightness; an angular anvil chin reddened by a searing, steely grin. But despite her florid yet clumsily constructed verse, the composite drawing was turning out to be one of the best the artist had ever done—so captivating and lifelike. It just needed a final finishing touch. Was this man wearing anything distinctive, the sketch artist wondered. Perhaps a hat or some jewelry? "Only a cheap and menacing veneer to hide his guilt, his fate, his fear," she said.
A suspect was never apprehended.