Beautiful

Another #ThursdayTales story, This time under one thousand words YEAH!  Dedicated to S., who is a beautiful lady and doesn’t realize it.

Ugly.  She’d always been ugly.  Her father had told her so, her schoolmates had told her so, when she got older men didn’t have to tell her so any more because she already knew.  With her head down and eyes averted, she made her way along the crowded sidewalk, finding momentary respite under passing umbrellas from the persistent drizzle.

Later but still early for her, with her hair half-clinging and half-curling she stood inside a chilly coffee shop and ordered hot chocolate. She was happy to get back outside where the air was warm, heavy with the rain and pregnant with the scent of earth. A woman passing by smiled and said “Your hair’s going to get ruined out here without an umbrella.” She didn’t care because what did it matter? Who was looking?

On the way to the drugstore she got splashed and grumbled, shaking filthy water off her hands. Inside, also freezing, she picked up a pack of cigarettes and a package of single-edged razor blades. She’d hesistated before but today was it. Refusing a bag, she stuffed the blades into her pocket and stood outside under the awning of the store. The world passed around her and she felt caught in the flow, unable to really touch anything. Blowing smoke from her lips, she flexed her fingers. They felt stiff and damp and wrinkly and cold.

She had a note and a will and all her things were packed. All she had to do now was strike the final blow against herself. In the thirty-odd years of her life she’d drifted, never finding an anchor, never fitting in. She didn’t belong anywhere and she didn’t want to be anywhere either. Her father had been right. They had all been right, and at last her stubborn will to prove them wrong had been worn down by her own experience. There wasn’t any sadness, though she was filled with regrets. Her apartment building was in view now. It was almost the end.

A screech of tires and the bark of a dog. An old woman was lying in the street.

She rushed over, dropped to her knees in a puddle and barely noticed a pebble stabbing her in the knee. The woman was fine, she’d fallen was all. The dog ran in excited circles, yapping and wagging its stumpy little tail furiously as she helped the woman up and began collecting the escaped groceries she’d been carrying: the rolling oranges and the packages of macaroni and cheese, a tabloid magazine. The brown paper bag had ripped so she carried the stuff in her arms despite the woman’s protests and helped her take them to her place.
“Thank you so much. Seems like it’s been terrible outside lately. Don’t you have an umbrella?” There was strong tea with sugar and milk, and despite her own protestations the woman kept her inside with cherry pie. The rain tried to break in but the windows held firm and even the howling of the wind did not induce them to give way. The woman sipped, her eyes appraising her guest who now had the tiny, trembling dog in her lap. “Frankie likes you. Usually he barks at everyone.” She chuckled and went to the stove where an enormous pot of soup was bubbling.

“What are you making?”

“Chicken soup with matzo balls. I learned the recipe from my uncle back when he owned the deli downstairs. Won’t you stay and have some with me? It’ll only be a while before it’s done.” She stirred.
“I don’t want to overstay my welcome, and what with the pie I should probably-”

“Don’t be silly. Your pie has time to settle. It will take a couple hours yet.” She turned, “Do you play chess?”

The old woman was good at chess. Frankie lay on the loveseat next to her, watching. She won, of course, but her companion hardly noticed. She had been enjoying her host’s colorful reminiscing. They had soup. It was delicious. Afterward, there was more pie, more tea, and then it was late afternoon. The old woman disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her with a stack of photo albums. She paged through them running her hands over the film and looking at the pictures. In her youth her host had been a beauty, with flaming red hair and big, spakling eyes. The hair had greyed and her eyes were squinted behind reading glasses but she still had her lush mouth and full smile.

“You know, I used to really hate these pictures.” She was back with a tote bag full of something. She sat down on the couch and Frankie immediately leapt up to snuggle between the women. She patted him affectionately. “When I was a girl I felt so ugly. Nobody liked my hair and my mouth was too big.” She pointed to a photo of herself in a skirted swimsuit. “See there? I was a fat-bottomed girl too.” She laughed and opened another album, one filled with photos of her and a handsome man.

“You weren’t ugly at all!”

“I wasn’t, no. But my Jimmy had a hell of a time getting me to realize that.” Her chin wrinkled and she pressed her lips together. “I miss that man. He knew true beauty. Girls threw themselves at him but he picked me somehow. I always used to ask him why and he would just tell me that I had a heart like a star that he could follow home in the dark. He’d have thought you’re a siren.”

Tote bag in hand she departed from the woman’s apartment, right across the street from her own. Indoors, she unpacked it, found a big container of still-warm soup and the rest of the cherry pie. On the back of the piece of paper where the woman had written down her phone number there was a note which read simply “You’re beautiful.”

Outside the rain had stopped.