There's something to be said for subtlety, but not much.
I want to tell you that you're beautiful. I bet you don't hear that very much, because of the type of beautiful that you are. Simple and small. Long but not tall. Flat finish, not gloss. Natural, even plain. Thoughtful. I suspect you'd get more attention in some other place, like New York, but you're a bit simple looking for Texas. You probably aren't treated like you're beautiful very often, but you are. I want to tell you this, but I don't want you to misunderstand me and be annoyed or offended or, even worse, interested. I want to tell you this just to make you happy, because you should know and you look like you don't, which is part of your beauty. I want to tell you, but I can't.
For some reason I am reminded of a scene from the train a few days ago. There was a father, probably in his twenties, with a little girl in his lap. She was a beautiful little girl, probably three. She was one of those little girls who look around with their eyes wide open and their mouths closed, observing quietly. She was looking intently at the wrinkled, white skin of the elderly woman beside her. Her father was oblivious, or he might have asked her not to stare. The woman was so very, very old, staring into nothing with a hint of a smile on her face. She had skin like soft paper with deep wrinkles that looked like parallel lines etched in white clay. The little girl was fascinated by the woman's cheek between her eye and ear. She reached her tiny hand and, her father still oblivious, lightly brushed her fingers over the deep lines. The old woman hardly reacted at all. She looked over at the little girl, smiled a friendly smile and then looked away. The little girl was not embarrassed at all. She continued to look, but she didn't touch again. I wonder what they were thinking, the two of them. They seemed to have an understanding of some kind.
Some things are so subtle. They look like nothing, but they're so much more than that.
