The Most Beautiful Girl

I sat on a bench at the corner of Lincoln Street and Bailey looking at her from across the street. She in what looked like a blue swimming suit two sizes too small for her was wrapped around a light post watching all the people walk past her. If you saw her from the corner of your eye it looked like she was stretching or working out, but she wasn’t. Dark black bags hung under her bloodshot eyes, an old catcher’s mitt that has seen too many games. On her feet were torn and dirty off-white high heels, which at some time probably were shock white. Looking at her bruised calf, her swimming suit with half of a nipple protruding from the top, I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

I had seen her before, walking with businessmen. She always had on something different. My co-worker describes her clothes as trashy. They’re not. They are vintage. One day she was wearing an old torn hippie shirt with long sleeves. One of her breasts was completely bare where the shirt had been torn on some occasion. The businessman walking with her fondled it, and I remember wishing that it was me walking beside her.

Sometimes she wore lipstick that ran along her lips and then jutted up her cheek. Blue eyeliner caked every inch around her eyes. Her eyes were peering out of the most beautiful sky.

Maybe I’ll ask her to be my wife today.

Originally published January 1, 2000