Beauty is not having to answer to anyone, I thought.
Beauty is freedom from criticism, freedom from constraint. Beauty is timelessness.
If this is true, I must be the most beautiful woman that ever lived.
Beauty is standing out from the surroundings. I was doing that quite well.
Beauty is hard work, but must appear effortless. That sounds about right.
I walked down the runway in silence. No flashes, no applause, no gasps. I stumbled and fell. No response.
I screamed. No echo. I cried. Nobody came to help. I ripped off the ridiculous shoes and threw them at the cameras. They bounced off with a hollow sound and lay there glittering dully.
I ran to the bathroom. Washed my face. Cried some more.
I can’t stand how beautiful I am, I thought.
I grabbed my backpack and pulled on my boots.
Beautiful in hiking boots and a designer dress smeared with tear-melted makeup.
I clomped sullenly to the parking lot and looked at my reflection in a windshield.
Beautiful, as only the last human alive can be.