The Perfect Girl

I was on the subway, sitting by the door when she boarded. She was blind, using a cane to find her way. She made the first step with uncertainty, like she was not sure how high the car floor is going to be. I wanted to offer her my seat, but she stayed by the door, probably worried she would have a problem getting off later.

She had the perfect hair. I wondered how she combed it. She must have used her hand to make sure it was not tangled. Same with her clothes, no wrinkles at all. And her skin was perfect. She was not wearing any makeup.

Briefly, I imagined myself living with her. Could she tell I was not handsome by touching me? Would she accept me for what I am, or was physical beauty as important to her as it was to us?

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