I hate the lady who wears a red wig and two black hats. She sits high, wooden and graceful. Her hair is a satin scarlet sheath that hangs seductively over one eye. Her face I can trace; carved mahogany, straight nose, sleek cheek bones, and lips which both pout and pucker. Necklaces cascade over her bosom; pearls, gold and silver chains, drooping and decorating her perfectly rounded breasts which sit under small, strong, symmetrical shoulders. Two black hats; one with a wide round brim, settled on top of another with a wider brim. Day and night I loathe her affectation. My eyes crawl over every inch, searching her transcendent exterior. I smile at her. She does not acknowledge. Her eyebrows are arched. My hate emanates, from my toenails up and out through my Afro. Why do I hate her? Her statuesque pulchritude haunts my sleep. In the night, in the dark of my bedroom, I open my eyes and see nothing but she is there, staring at me, always. I stumble to look in the mirror, blinking and blinded as I study my own asymmetric features. I turn my head, searching for the beauty which is undeniably present in her. It is not to be found. I fall into bed, my abhorrence a malignancy from which I must find an escape.
