There are days…
There is beauty in everything. There is an aura, akin to a faint light but not quite. I see it in the pine trees lined along the walk next to the east building. Someone planted those trees; someone cares for those trees. The children play underneath those trees as they laugh and giggle, holding hands as they are sheparded towards the playground next to the volleyball area over in that corner of the campus. The parents watch proudly as they walk away from their beloved little innocent angels, and I swear on some mornings I see tears in some of their eyes. I fear I, too, would shed tears if I had children. It would be the first time I would shed tears of joy, but there’s a first time for everything. This beauty permeates the people, the trees, the richly worn wooden bench that looks like it would be a tranquil place on which to contemplate the meaning of life (or at the very least read a book). In the sky are clouds piled high, mountains of fluff above and beyond it all and I wish, how I wish, I could be up there to see the beauty up close. I don’t wish for much, because really who am I, and who are you, to wish for anything? I just want to fly.
Inside is not like outside, not even close, not at all, but we always have to go inside. Maria is always there. Beautiful Maria. Cinnamon-tan Maria. Her wrinkles and lovingly round body are so warm. Her beauty shines, as does all beauty at this point. A tall blonde in tall boots and tall pants smiles as I approach the counter and my heart and my mind are ready to bust loose and take her along for the ride. If I reach.
“Hola, Maria. Que linda te ves esta manana.”
“Ay, tu. No seas loco y dime lo que quieres.” She blushes and tries not to smile. Ay, Maria, how she tries.
Hatred washes over me. The hatred for the fat man sitting at the cafe table, his food piled high and cheeks jiggling in a sickening display of cellulose and fat. His tiny little spectacles squeezed around the fat along his temples and above his ears. Fat head.
It’s one of those days.