The first thing you notice about Beauty is her eyes. They’re a bright concoction of clear sky and rolling hillside grass. Her bottom lip is slightly less than the width of your average Twizler, and twice as sweet. She only wears makeup on special occasions. When you touch her skin, your hand just seems to glide. Her light brown hair runs down to the part of the back that can’t be scratched without someone else. Beauty’s smile can redeem your most disastrous day.
Beauty prefers books to channel surfing. She knows the importance of knowledge, but she’s fine with killing her brain cells once in a while. She pays rent and part of tuition by working at a record store. A small chunk of her work check goes to expanding her Pez collection. She keeps it in a cardboard box in her closet. It’s seldom seen, which only adds to the shits and giggles. She can play a few songs on guitar. Her fingers are heat seekers for cool, easy melodies. She writes poems about everything from goldfish to God.
Beauty is not above wearing her boyfriend’s dumb cartoon shirts in public. If she detects a guy eyeball fucking her from afar, she just using her middle finger to pick her nose and the problem goes away. Beauty only has a few close friends, and she’d die for all of them. When she goes to the beach, she outlasts the sun. When she gets into a good movie, she’s as quiet as a true believer in church.
When she’s bored, she pinches her stomach and plays with the cushy lump between her fingers. She has a contagious laugh that’s never cheapened by faking amusement. The sexiest thing she does is watch classic Simpsons in panties and a t-shirt, elbows on the carpet, head tilted up and wiggling with laughter. She has dirty and wholesome memories from the night before Saturday mornings like these. Sometimes she gazes back, inviting.
To be honest, I’ve never actually met Beauty. But maybe someday.
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