People

The pretty girl

She would walk into the library every day. She was pretty. Every day she would wear a different shade of lipstick. Shocking red. Deep plum. Bright Black. She was pretty. Her hair was dyed a purplish silver, her roots showed through occasionally, but the transition from the silvery violet to the dark brown only made her more interesting. She was pretty. She would always wear something that was sure to turn heads, she had a lithe, wiry frame that made everything look good on her. She was pretty. She was pale, so pale her skin looked silvery sometimes. She was pretty. She made an appearance every day, enough times that people thought about her sometimes. A group of high school freshman were sure that she must be a vampire, or a fairy, or a model, or perhaps just a very pretty girl. Se was pretty. It was not just her looks. Every day she would meet a small black boy. Some days they would talk, some times they would do homework, sometimes they would just sit in sit in silence. Everyone knew that there has to be a story there, and no one knew what it was. Asking would mean admitting to watching them and it was a risk no one was willing to take. No one knew what color her eyes were. They are too scared to look her in the eye. No, not scared, intimidated. As if her prettiness was something to strike apprehension in the hearts of those less than her. Perhaps if she would look people in the eye, if she would smile at them, then she would be called beautiful. Maybe, if people could scrimmage up the courage to say hi, they would call her beautiful. Maybe, if some stroke of fate hit, some miraculous accident in which someone learned something behind the veil of pretty, then she would be called beautiful. It did not, and they did not, and she did not. And so, she was pretty. Doomed to be pretty.