Nietzsche on his Balcony by Carlos Fuentes

She was slight of build and short of stature. But she had a nice figure, rather svelte. Okay, skinny. Her height could distract you from how small her body was, how thin her arms. She cropped her ash-blonde hair short. And through that hair, her skull was revealed in its perfect form. She had a distinct profile. That is, she looked like one person from the front, and another from the side. From below, she looked strange and not so beautiful. She never exposed her legs. Long slacks concealed her shoe size and the height of her heels.

But she liked to take off her jacket and reveal how slim her arms were. Slim is a euphemism. Her arms were skin and bones and would seem scrawny if not for their golden sheen. Those arms would have evoked illness if not for the strange energy with which they glowed. If Dorian was unconscious of the beauty of her arms-in spite of their thinness, without the illness-she was less so of the flatness of her chest, on which it was impossible to detect any curves whatsoever. Flat, covered by a sleeveless, gold top that revealed Dorian's armpits. One had been shaved until it seemed ghostly: white and smooth.