The beautiful one studies anatomy from dawn to dusk and then just sits there crying. No one speaks to her in a friendly manner. They know she is dying inside, they can see in her beautiful face. They exchange glances that say “It won’t be long now. Soon we’ll have this city back to ourselves and our ugliness will become the standard.” But the beautiful one must walk the streets to escape her mirrors, and she must read her anatomy book in the park under the maple tree to understand the looks the others give her. She needs love, she tries to approach them with kindness, with a smile and a kind word, but they shuffle past her growling, their faces stuffed down into their overcoats. She is shunned in the little vegetable store, she is shunned in the museum, and in the church. The beautiful one is dying, all alone, no merciful words, no soft touch, no flowers. Perhaps the city will be a better place to visit, I don’t know.