A mental image from Ji.

She held her hands together. The same shape as an owl hoot, or a summer's afternoon and the squeak of a blade of grass. The sun was shining and the shadow fell across her red patent shoes with the scuffs that were collecting as she forgot to walk with care, so intent was she held her hands together. Held so tight knuckles bled white, no space for air to get out to get in, held so tight. She held her hands together. There was a scrape on her knee where the skin had worn away and white socks with lace at the ankles; one of those had worn away too at the heel and her red patent shoes blistered in the sun. She held her hands together but there was the slightest taste of apple-golden light.

What's that you have, said the devil.

I bought a second, she replied.