Beautiful

   I looked up from my laptop, my fingers pausing their dance across the keys. The clinking of cups on saucers and aroma of fresh espresso filled the quiet coffee shop, the scent seemingly emitting from the walls. From my quiet and cozy corner, I could see the entirety of the shop. From the local art delicately hung upon the walls, to behind the counter where the worker on shift was swaying slightly to the music playing from his headphones, but I could also see her.

   She sat at the far table, right next to the window. The golden afternoon sunlight shown softly through the glass, catching her chocolate colored hair in the light. I felt my vision tranfix on her, hypnotized by the way she carefully flipped each page of her history textbook, and the way her feet, fitted in beat up white converse, tapped the rustic wooden floor, as though to the beat of a song only she could hear.

  Her delicate fingers moved from the book laid out before her to her coffee mug, enclosing it and guiding it to her lips. As though she could sense my presence, she looked up to meet my gaze, her emerald eyes meeting my blue ones. For one moment, seemingly lasting an infinity on it’s own, I felt frozen in time.

   My eyes studied every detail of her face, taking in every blemish and beauty mark, before looking back into those emerald eyes. She toor her gaze away and brought the coffee mug down from her lips, placing it softly back on the table. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the evergreen sweater previously pulled down to her fingertips slipped back, revealing a dainty set of silver rings scattered across her finger. She looked to me once more, sending a sheepish smile my way before returning to her textbook.

   But my gaze was locked on her, fascinated by her beauty. Some might have called her pretty, but that word did not describe her appearance. ‘Pretty’ did not match the way her chocolate hair shown in the light. ‘Pretty’ could not capture the way her emerald eyes, her dazzling emerald eyes, sparkled in the afternoon sun. ‘Pretty’ could not describe the dimples on her rosy cheeks, or the freckles that were scattered across her face like stars in the night sky. They would only call her ‘Pretty’ because her skin was blemished and her legs weren’t smooth. They would only call her ‘Pretty’ because her teeth aren't straight and her nails are short and chipped.

   They wouldn’t take into account that those attributes, “flaws” as they call them, only make her more than pretty. I tore my eyes away, smiling to myself as I looked down to my laptop. She was so stunning, gorgeous, prettier than someone without flaws, prettier than someone who’s perfect. She was beautiful, in her own special way.

 

Cate

VT

18 years old

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