Beauty is her
When the faceless women in my dreams take off their clothes, they have her breasts, her milk-chocolate skin, her hip bones that jut out.
I remember—in the beginning, before I first loved her—one of my friends told me that he thought she was beautiful. When I saw her next, I decided that I agreed with him.
I agreed because she had certain qualities in common with my idea of beauty at the time.
Now, when I’m in the checkout aisle at the grocery and I look over the shelves of candy and see a woman with dark curly hair, freckled skin, and perfectly straight white teeth, she is beautiful because of her likeness to Her.
Only, I have not met such a woman. Not at the grocery store or anywhere else. Nor do I think I ever will, as she told me before I left.