She was homely.A very broad forehead gave her face unpleasant, masculine look. Her eyes, which were very small, slanted at the corner and made many of acquaintances wonder is perchance she had a few drops of celestial blood in her veins.Her nose was broad and flat, and its nostrils were always dilated, as if breathing were an effort.Her mouth, with its thick lips, was a long straight gash across her face made angular by her unusually big jaws.
But Nature, as if ashamed of her meanness is fashioning the face , moulded a body of unnusual beauty. From neck to her small feet, she was perfect.her bust was full, and her breast rose up in full bloom. her waist was slim as a young girls, her hips seemed to have stolen the curve of the crescent moon. Her arms were shapely ending in small dainty hands with fine, tapering fingers that were the envy of her friends.Her legs with their trim ankles reminded one of those lifeless thing seen in shop windows displaying the latest silk stockings.
Hers was a body of sculptor, athirst for glory, might have dreamt of and moulded in a feverish frenzy of creation , with hands atremble with a vision of the fame in store for him.Hers was a body that might have been the delight and despair of a painter whose faltering brush tried in vain to depict on the canvas such a beautiful harmony of curves and lines. Hers was a body a poet might have raved over the immortalized in musical, fanciful verse. Hers was a body men would gladly have gone to hell for.
And they did. Men looked at her face and turned their eyes away, they looked at her body and were enslaved.They forgot the broad masculine forehead, the small eyes that slanted at the corners, the unpleasant moutn, the aggressive jaws.All they had eyes for was that body, those hips that had stolen th curve of the crescent moon.
But she hated her body--hated that gift which Nature, in a fit of remorse for the wrong done to her face, had given her. She hated her body becoz it made men look at her with an unbeautiful light in their eyes--married eyes, single eyes.
She wanted love, was starved for it. But she didnt want the love that her body inspired in men.She wanted something purer , cleaner.
She was disgusted.And hurt.For men told other women that they loved them loving deep into their eyes to the souls beneath, their voice low and soft, their voices quivering with the weight of their tenderness.But men told her that they loved her body with eyes that made her feel as if she were mass of flesh.
But she became reconciled to her fate.And rather than bring back that unbeautiful light in men's eyes, she shose to go on-with the face.
She turned to writing to while away the long night spent brooding all alone.
Little things.Little lyrics. Little sketches.Something they were the heart-throbs of a woman who wanted love and sweet things whispered to her in the dark. Sometimes they were the ironies of one who sees all the weakness and stupidity of men and the world through eyes made bitter by loneliness.
She sent them to pares which found the little things acceptable and published them. "To fill Space", she told herself.But she continued to write becoz it made her forget once in a while how drab her life was.
And then came into her life- a man
with white blood in his veins.he was one of those who belived in the
inferioirty of color races.But he found something unusual in the light,
ironic traits from the pain of unknown writer,Not in the little
lyrics.No, he thought that those were superfluous
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