We can't all be beautiful, we heard her say, pressing the cup to lips one last time before letting it slip from her hand to the floor, where it broke apart into several large pieces, and millions of small ones. And while waiting for the one she had imagined she pushed him and all of us away. I wonder how she is sometimes. Whether she had had too many drinks, stumbled out to the street only to be hit by an oncoming car, the driver now shaken, in hysterics; or whether she still sits at home, safe in her sorrow, still waiting for the one she'd imagined.I only pray that they are wrong, that I am not her and that sometimes ugly is enough.
