Broken

A second piece written for a "broken" challenge, this is something of a description of the most beautiful woman I know.

Her eyes were blue, black, purple. It wasn’t possible to tell which one was real; which was nothing but shattered providence. Protection trumped trust, trampled sanity, you could see it when you looked at her. No glimpse gave it away �" the aura of professionalism, the iced exterior hid it all until you stopped and really looked, really allowed yourself to see. But she had to want you to see; somewhere inside herself, she had to want you to know that really this facade was not the be-all, not the end-all of what there was, because if she didn’t, there was nothing to see but that cold professionalism no matter how hard you stared. She didn’t smile much, but it seemed to fit the persona, the act she wore, but when she did it gave her face a whole new light, and every now and then that smile reached her eyes. Those were the times you knew, really knew and truly believed, she’d find a way to make it.

Once I heard her say, “I don’t like for people to see me smile, that’s private”, and it struck me how many worlds there are between us. Oh, we’re a lot alike, she and I; and yet there are times I don’t think I’ve ever known two people so different. I wear my smiles, my laughter in amplification; hers are rare, treats and the occasional proof of her regard for someone. She believes that people are beautiful when they cry; I believe she is beautiful no matter what expression she reveals; no matter what expression she hides.

We both believe in tartan ribbons, in cookies and the value of sarcasm; sometimes we’re amused by things that are far too inappropriate, and that’s okay.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her smile. Longer still since I saw it reach her blue, her black, her purple eyes. It’s been a long time since this was now, a long time since I didn’t feel I failed her; it’s been a long time since we weren’t both so broken.

Author's Note

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