Beauty Lies in the Shop Window

Beauty lies in the shop window. Not within the displays of useless and meaningless possessions but in the person staring back. She can observe the shape of her face, chiseled by a true master of fine art. Her lips, often delicately pressed by the dear laborer of her heart, speak without moving through the color of a rose so painstakingly sought after. The eyes of a night walker gleam back in a simple elegance too heavenly to bear for any length of time. Every curve of her body is perfectly thought out to where her dress is merely a cover for her endless youthful treasures. She can admire the hair that curls gently down over her neck to ever so delicately tint her skin.

Behind her plays the short book of memories collected in her few years. They twirl through the glass. Echoes of conversation and laughter break the city sounds and dance along the sidewalk where she stands, transfixed. Vanity drips from the awning and falls like raindrops on passersby. Frozen on her cloud of ecstasy and obsession, she is isolated from the world, an exhibit they cannot touch. Consumed in the gaze of her gleaming glass reflection, she has not noticed the seasons beginning to change.

The separation of her patch of sidewalk and the rest of the street grow more and more distant, and the flower begins to whither. She has no conscience of such changing, for her eyes never leave the glass apparition staring back. Voices break her meditation. They are not from the glass but from behind her, whispers filled with disgust and anger approach her ears and sail down her spine. As the time passes they grow louder and far more pronounced until the girl decides finally to break her stare with the glass and confront those demons behind her. She turns with her eyes still on the glass, and then lets go just as someone collides into her and continues on his way.

She falls on the concrete, the harshness of winter evident in her bloodshot eyes. She cries, not for the man but for men as a whole. Her heart can be seen through the seams of what once was a lavish evening gown custom fit to compliment her since passed, youthful, womanly physique. It beats a melancholic melody of yesterday's dreams. Her face is a buried masterpiece, worn down by saltwater and dust. The tangles of her delicate curls can still be found somewhere, deep inside the gnarls of grease and frizz. Slowly, she picks herself up, as her hands burn from scrapes now lingering on her palms. She lifts her head to face the glass, only to find that she is gone. Desperately she will stand, staring, waiting for a sign from a forgotten memory. She, is beautiful.