Summary: Why are so many of the love stories all about handsome guys and
beautiful girls falling in love? If only the best looking fell in love,
where would the ordinary be? A short story on how love can be blind. Read
and Review.
SHE'S NOT BEAUTIFUL, and she knows that. She knows that there's nothing piercing or mysterious about her plain brown eyes. There're not a warm, sensual brown, like the color of chocolate and leather sofas, or a dark, tawny black brown, with the brown darkening into the black. Nor are they a emerald green, or a beautiful sky blue, or an silvery grey. They are just brown- a washed out, plain brown like mud or the dust in watercolor paintings.
Her features are plain. There's nothing out of ordinary about her straight brows, or straight nose, or thin lips were the lower lip is far thicker than the top layer. Her face is slightly pudgy, still lingering with trace of baby fat. And her complexion is nothing special- pale, but not a snow- white kind of pale, more of a translucent pale, like the color of diluted milk. It's not a gorgeous suntanned gold, nor a delicious light coffee color or a dark, midnight black like she wishes.
And her body is ordinary too. She's tall, but not that a supermodel sort of graceful tall, more of the clumsy grace of a heron. She doesn't have a lot of weight, but she isn't slender- it's more of a skinny sort of body. There's nothing interesting about her body, because it's just as plain and as ordinary as her eyes and face. She wishes that when she had been a teenager she had filled out a bit more.
The color of her hair is dull too. Its blond- but more of a yellow blond rather than a shining, glossy golden blond. It's straight, but more of a spiky, pointy kind of straight than the wonderful glossy straight locks of the shampoo commercial girl's hair. She's always wanted to have wavy hair, or clustered ringlets or corkscrew curls. Her hair isn't the glowing wavy locks of autumn, or the darkest raven black of winter. It's short and yellow and plain- just like the rest of her.
Plain, ordinary Cordelia. The only beautiful thing about her is her name- a beautiful, strange, ethereal name for a plain girl, who was neither ugly nor pretty. She was no saint, nor devil, no intellectual, nor brain dead. She was just plain, ordinary Cordelia to herself.
HE'S NOT HANDSOME, and he knows that. His blue eyes aren't the same color as the sky, or the forget-me-nots. They aren't golden amber or chasm black. They aren't the same color as jewels, whether it be emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and they don't sparkle like stars in the night. The blue in them is a tired, watery blue, like the faraway tinge of blue in a cloud, or the color of water when the sky is reflected skimming off the surface.
His features are plain. There's nothing handsome, or charming about his firm jaw, or high cheekbones and long-short nose. His face is thin, but not in a cat-like, elegant way, more like in a thoughtful, slanted way. His skin is a dark brown color- not the color of coffee, but the color of freshly glazed bread. He wishes that it were either darker or lighter- if it were darker it could be the color of coffee or if it were lighter it could be called fair. But he's just boring, and in between.
There's nothing appealing about his body either. He's tallish, but not broad shouldered, strong but not muscular. The strength he has is a sort of thin, sinewy strength, and he doesn't hold it with the power and authority of a bodybuilder. When he was a teenager, his weight didn't follow his height. But he wasn't a sort of panther, slouchy thin, or a strong capable kind of fat, just boring and in between.
The hair he has is cut short, but is still unmanageable. It's bristly and it sticks up from the back. It's a pale color, but not blond, or he would have called it fair. It's a peroxide kind of yellow, the kind that isn't pale enough to attract attention, and yet not quite dark enough to be fully blonde. There's nothing fascinating about his hair, just like his eyes, face and body.
But when she looks at him, sitting slightly away form the others, she thinks that his eyes are the most beautiful that she's ever seen- they are the color of frozen ice against the sky. And his face in her eyes is finely structured and amused, so unlike her cubby one. He's tall to her, and strong in the lanky way of his. And his hair is the color of powdered white gold, not a dull yellow like hers is.
He's watching her from the back of the room, and he thinks she is the prettiest girl he has ever seen. Her eyes are friendly and a pale sort of brown, like milky coffee he thinks. And her face is chubby and angelic, like cupid or those smiling pictures of cherubs. Her hair is the color of fresh straw, just like how he remembered it on his pa's old farm, and it's straight and neat.
She's far to pretty to ever notice him, but he stands up, and makes his way to her. He knows she is going to say no- she probably already has a boyfriend- the luckiest boy in the world, but he is going to ask her to dance.
Her heart is beating faster against her chest. What was he going, coming towards her? Was he going to ask her to dance? But why? Why would anybody ever like her- plain, ordinary Cordelia? But there he is, standing in front of her, smiling tentatively, and asking her to dance. Her voice is missing, and she manages to stutter out a reply.
In his arms, she feels beautiful. And when he's holding her, he feels like he's Prince Charming, about to offer the world to the princess in his arms.
SHE'S NOT BEAUTIFUL, and she knows that. She knows that there's nothing piercing or mysterious about her plain brown eyes. There're not a warm, sensual brown, like the color of chocolate and leather sofas, or a dark, tawny black brown, with the brown darkening into the black. Nor are they a emerald green, or a beautiful sky blue, or an silvery grey. They are just brown- a washed out, plain brown like mud or the dust in watercolor paintings.
Her features are plain. There's nothing out of ordinary about her straight brows, or straight nose, or thin lips were the lower lip is far thicker than the top layer. Her face is slightly pudgy, still lingering with trace of baby fat. And her complexion is nothing special- pale, but not a snow- white kind of pale, more of a translucent pale, like the color of diluted milk. It's not a gorgeous suntanned gold, nor a delicious light coffee color or a dark, midnight black like she wishes.
And her body is ordinary too. She's tall, but not that a supermodel sort of graceful tall, more of the clumsy grace of a heron. She doesn't have a lot of weight, but she isn't slender- it's more of a skinny sort of body. There's nothing interesting about her body, because it's just as plain and as ordinary as her eyes and face. She wishes that when she had been a teenager she had filled out a bit more.
The color of her hair is dull too. Its blond- but more of a yellow blond rather than a shining, glossy golden blond. It's straight, but more of a spiky, pointy kind of straight than the wonderful glossy straight locks of the shampoo commercial girl's hair. She's always wanted to have wavy hair, or clustered ringlets or corkscrew curls. Her hair isn't the glowing wavy locks of autumn, or the darkest raven black of winter. It's short and yellow and plain- just like the rest of her.
Plain, ordinary Cordelia. The only beautiful thing about her is her name- a beautiful, strange, ethereal name for a plain girl, who was neither ugly nor pretty. She was no saint, nor devil, no intellectual, nor brain dead. She was just plain, ordinary Cordelia to herself.
HE'S NOT HANDSOME, and he knows that. His blue eyes aren't the same color as the sky, or the forget-me-nots. They aren't golden amber or chasm black. They aren't the same color as jewels, whether it be emeralds, rubies, diamonds, and they don't sparkle like stars in the night. The blue in them is a tired, watery blue, like the faraway tinge of blue in a cloud, or the color of water when the sky is reflected skimming off the surface.
His features are plain. There's nothing handsome, or charming about his firm jaw, or high cheekbones and long-short nose. His face is thin, but not in a cat-like, elegant way, more like in a thoughtful, slanted way. His skin is a dark brown color- not the color of coffee, but the color of freshly glazed bread. He wishes that it were either darker or lighter- if it were darker it could be the color of coffee or if it were lighter it could be called fair. But he's just boring, and in between.
There's nothing appealing about his body either. He's tallish, but not broad shouldered, strong but not muscular. The strength he has is a sort of thin, sinewy strength, and he doesn't hold it with the power and authority of a bodybuilder. When he was a teenager, his weight didn't follow his height. But he wasn't a sort of panther, slouchy thin, or a strong capable kind of fat, just boring and in between.
The hair he has is cut short, but is still unmanageable. It's bristly and it sticks up from the back. It's a pale color, but not blond, or he would have called it fair. It's a peroxide kind of yellow, the kind that isn't pale enough to attract attention, and yet not quite dark enough to be fully blonde. There's nothing fascinating about his hair, just like his eyes, face and body.
But when she looks at him, sitting slightly away form the others, she thinks that his eyes are the most beautiful that she's ever seen- they are the color of frozen ice against the sky. And his face in her eyes is finely structured and amused, so unlike her cubby one. He's tall to her, and strong in the lanky way of his. And his hair is the color of powdered white gold, not a dull yellow like hers is.
He's watching her from the back of the room, and he thinks she is the prettiest girl he has ever seen. Her eyes are friendly and a pale sort of brown, like milky coffee he thinks. And her face is chubby and angelic, like cupid or those smiling pictures of cherubs. Her hair is the color of fresh straw, just like how he remembered it on his pa's old farm, and it's straight and neat.
She's far to pretty to ever notice him, but he stands up, and makes his way to her. He knows she is going to say no- she probably already has a boyfriend- the luckiest boy in the world, but he is going to ask her to dance.
Her heart is beating faster against her chest. What was he going, coming towards her? Was he going to ask her to dance? But why? Why would anybody ever like her- plain, ordinary Cordelia? But there he is, standing in front of her, smiling tentatively, and asking her to dance. Her voice is missing, and she manages to stutter out a reply.
In his arms, she feels beautiful. And when he's holding her, he feels like he's Prince Charming, about to offer the world to the princess in his arms.