Perfection

She walked by, a summer breeze. Her long black hair blew about her face, like in those magazine ads. Perfect, airbrushed, looking effortlessly beautiful.

Her beauty really was effortless. The tiny plumes of dust she kicked up dyed the already bedraggled hems of her uniform’s white shalwar a darker shade of brown. The fingernails on her dainty hands were bitten and ragged. Her clothes looked as if they had been stuffed them into an urn before she wore them.  She could have just slipped out of bed, drifted into her clothing, cut a hole in the sky and stepped into that dusty playground.

She was perfect. The people gathered around her looked almost discomfited by her presence. Incongruous, in spite of being in the majority. They were just a random jumble of parts thrown together, compared to the fine-tuned, perfectly aligned, specimen of bodily perfection that was her. It was as if a gleaming limousine had wandered into the midst of a scrap yard. The awe she inspired was almost fear.

I glanced down at my perfectly manicured nails, my immaculate uniform, my flawlessly white socks. I wondered who first created the iron, and what that person would’ve looked like.  Perhaps we would have gotten along quite well.