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Descriptive Essay On Destitute Beauty

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Destitute Beauty In the large city of New York, there are many beautiful people. I am not one of them. I can pass hours away sitting in a coffee shop in a tall seat next to the window, watching the beauties pass, seeing my reflection against them even more bloated and lumpy than normal. Some of them notice me. Most of them don’t. It doesn’t matter. Like I said, New York is a large city, I’ll never see them again. And anyway, I’m sure they’re used to people staring. How could they not be, they draw people with their large, black rimmed eyes and lean figures and cutting jawbones like dogs to the enticing smell of meat. I am just another dog, one they will forget in moments. And when the sun sets, and the beautiful people fade away and the crowd becomes faceless and intoxicated, that’s when I leave, and where I stay until the sun rises, becoming one with the pulse and throb of the mass. Promising myself that the next day, yes, the next day, I’ll get a job, ignore the cold, gorgeous people, succeed even with my lumps, and papery skin, and eyes that are just a little too far apart. And the next day, with my headache, I return. Today is yesterday and the day before. The sun is especially bright now, almost passive-aggressively bright, shining smugly through the haze that buries the city, bouncing into the small cafe in which I spend most of my time. It’s supposed to be homey, with nearly dead plants hanging skeletal by the windows and overstuffed couches near a coffee table. I sit in the uncomfortable seat that’s almost comically tall, at the only table next to a window. The barista--Ellen--is chatting happily with a customer, she barely notices me anymore. Which is fine by me. A woman, with long legs and hollows under her cheekbones, struts past the café, a mere foot away from me. She doesn’t notice my stare. It’s a funny thing. People talk all they want about feeling when people stare at them, getting goosebumps and looking around frantically for their admirer. But either it isn’t true, or I’m not important enough for my stare to mean anything, hold any weight. Searching through the crowd, I find parts and pieces that I want most, playing a game I often play. Her taut stomach, her long legs, her bright eyes,

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