In the Produce Aisle

Beauty is merely an acquaintance, someone you briefly smile to as you make eye contact across the parking lot, someone you politely ask "how are you?" while passing carts at the grocery store. She does not come around often; she scares you as you stare at the familiar yet unforeseen face. You want to keep staring, you want to ask more questions, but your gaze returns to your feet and your carts slide past one another. You want to squeeze her dry and scream, "stay!", but you only hear the tiptoeing sound your feet make on the linoleum floor. Her silhouette is lost to a world made of shadows.

Today I felt pretty.

Today, I whispered stay, but I don't think she heard.