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.