Dangerous Comparisons.
May. 15th, 2009 07:07 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writers_loftWe were sitting in the diner. Or cafe. All the same. Tin chairs that wobbled with every shudder or gut-shaking laugh. Tables that bore the scars of lost battles with water marks and cold coke cans. She looked over a frail shoulder at a girl walking down the aisle. Of course she wasn't alone in watching the designer bag gripped by perfectly sculpted nails and heels attached to long, divinely-shaped legs, saunter saucily away.
She sighed. "You know I've never been chic." Rubbing the corner of her mouth with one hand, she shook her head and flicked ash off her cigarette.
An attractive waitress with a friendly smile balanced a tray of drinks in one hand bravely, raising it above the head of some clod who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking.
She looked at her longingly. "And I've never been graceful."
Picking a dull nail, she looked up at me awkwardly with a crooked grin and then back down at the table, staring pensively at a chipped saucer, the off-white, past its prime coat of paint being kept company by a few meaningless but nevertheless present crumbs. Brushing them aside, she said, "I suppose when you have never been beautiful you pick up honesty and rationality in the absence of a pretty face."
She was right. Her face would never be on the side of a bus for some makeup ad and she wasn't the pretty little waitress that was going to marry the high school quarterback but there was something poetically beautiful about her insecurities; there was something to be desired about her incomplete appearance and wispy hair, yes, but something tangible and appealing all the same.
She sighed. "You know I've never been chic." Rubbing the corner of her mouth with one hand, she shook her head and flicked ash off her cigarette.
An attractive waitress with a friendly smile balanced a tray of drinks in one hand bravely, raising it above the head of some clod who wasn't paying attention to where he was walking.
She looked at her longingly. "And I've never been graceful."
Picking a dull nail, she looked up at me awkwardly with a crooked grin and then back down at the table, staring pensively at a chipped saucer, the off-white, past its prime coat of paint being kept company by a few meaningless but nevertheless present crumbs. Brushing them aside, she said, "I suppose when you have never been beautiful you pick up honesty and rationality in the absence of a pretty face."
She was right. Her face would never be on the side of a bus for some makeup ad and she wasn't the pretty little waitress that was going to marry the high school quarterback but there was something poetically beautiful about her insecurities; there was something to be desired about her incomplete appearance and wispy hair, yes, but something tangible and appealing all the same.
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