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.
Two Black Hats
Published by margotjo
WSET student, Pittsburgh born Manhattan made, writer, wino and wanderluster, will travel for food! Xo, MargotJo View all posts by margotjo