The pretty girl has fallen short of beauty’s sanctity. Her dainty flaws and failings have made her accessible as she sleeps in the shadow of feminine idealism. Her face is charming, yet uneven: lacking the symmetry that freezes passion into portraits and makes the artist’s hands tremble. She has been spared the beauty’s prison of admiration and roams happily through the fields of anonymity.
The pretty girl – charming, uneven – keeps a respectful distance from perfection, as she walks beneath her heavenly betters. Her face is her frivolity – she knows that she will not live to be any man’s regret, to sit like a parishioner amongst his memories. She is no floating vision to comfort his passing.
The pretty girl is a blithe reflection of the earth – its breath and color runs through her body; the blue veins winking below her skin pulse with carefree blood. The beauty – alone and heavenly – ignores the imperfect creature below with her few minor glories. Only the beauty bears the heavy burden of embracing all the virtues.
The pretty girl waits for nature’s chances. A wandering shaft of light that catches the prisms in her eyes to create new colors and depths. A curl to drop like a blessing. Blushes that reveal a gentle fear. A dark background that exposes a profile as graceful as a chalice.
The pretty girl will get left behind, for all her delicate asymmetry. Her image is ignored, filed away inside an anthology of pleasant faces – unknown and without fame. I once watched a perspective buyer pause before one, his fingers tapping pensively on the faded cardboard before he left her behind.
But I followed him quickly. I paid five dollars for her. I stared at her odd loveliness, smooth within the sculpting light. Then, out of gratitude, I wrote a story about her.