Everything about her is beautiful. Everything about her is not like you.
He was young and handsome. She was rich and bitchy.
The wicked, wart-ful Witch of Winkleton cast a spell on the very vain, very self-conscious Vivian, so that every time young Vivian looked in the mirror she saw the face of a ferocious, fly-infested fox. She’d ask her friends again and again, “Does my face look like a fox?” and they always said no, so that eventually she didn’t ask and she didn’t bother looking in the mirror and so that eventually, she didn’t even worry about what she looked like anymore.
Her beauty was her only currency and by the time she turned 20, she was morally bankrupt. When she reached 23, she had been in a series of relationships with both men and women; though later on, she was never quite certain if this made her bi, lesbian or just a good opportunist.
Her heat ebbs slowly from the sheets, leaving nothing but an ineffable sense of the passage of time.
I wish the beautiful would linger.
Just when He had decided to die from old age, her love found him. Her wrinkled skin, spotted hands and balding head almost gave him a heart attack.
When I spoke enviously of Josephine’s long lashes, rosy cheeks and soft curves, the corners of my Samael’s lips lifted, and he let out a low, menacing laugh that sent an erotic chill down my spine. He withdrew his blade and spoke in a hauntingly satisfied murmur to its blood-stained tip: “My love, all skeletons look the same.”
As Suzie watched her belly grow, her only hope was that her daughter would be as pretty as she was smart. And this must be where they got the saying, “be careful what you wish for,”—as her daughter was neither.