The purple cravat was bright and smooth. Its colour shone impossibly against the rest of him. His skin was pale, his unkempt hair blond, the knitted jumper off-white and the camel wool coat dark grey. Nothing about him was colourful or stylish. Except for that purple cravat.
Den lilla charmeklud var glat og skinnede. Dens farve lyste umuligt mod resten af ham. Hans hud var bleg, det uredte hår blondt, den strikkede sweater grumset hvid og kameluldsfrakken mørkegrå. Intet ved ham havde farve eller stil. Udover den lilla charmeklud.
Slowly, it stops struggling in her hands. It grows limp and heavy in the water. She lets go and sniffles. It starts sinking as it floats towards the long reflection of the moon, clearer now the lake is still again. She stands up and wades back to the shore. She struggles to dress, her body shaking and her wet skin resisting the dry clothes. A black bird whistles its too cheerful, too early morning song nearby. Suddenly, she regrets leaving the body in the lake. She looks around for a stick to retrieve it with before it sinks too deeply into the bog.