A beautiful lady works at the library. I say this – beautiful lady – knowing I sound like a little boy on Valentine's Day. But she is.
She is tall, taller than most women I know, dark-skinned, luminous. She dresses impeccably in entire outfits, a skill I have never mastered, like speaking in full sentences. Her outfits have palettes, moods, as intricate as weather. Each of her features could grandstand, but instead exist amiably within the confines of her face. Sometimes the smile hogs the spotlight, but it knows its place.
When she walks, people watch her because they can't look away. After she is gone, her perfume lingers, cotton candy and woodsmoke. How can someone like this exist? I pretend she goes downstairs, walks across the street, off the set, and disappears into her air-conditioned trailer. The door shuts; underneath the gold star, it reads: Beautiful Lady.