A pretty, tan, petite
woman judged my items
at the consignment store.
How pretty you are, I thought,
as she bent over the
clothes I had placed
on the counter.
She looked at me
quizzically,
“Excuse me?”
I felt myself blushing.
Had I spoken my thought?
Should I tell her
that I have always
envied her look,
confident and assured
by the advantages that come
with being pretty?
I glanced at a consigned figurine
standing to the side of my pile,
a Bo-peep with shepherd’s crook
in her delicate hand.
I held it and said,
“How pretty you are,”
and the consignment lady
turned back to my clothes.
“Yes, she is, isn’t she.”