Don’t Judge A Book By Its Cover

Her outer garment appeared heavily worn as if it had journeyed through countless generations of uncaring wear.

It was dingy. Most likely due to the neglect of basic sanitation. The stretched wool cap covering her head, masked the presumed unkempt locks housed beneath it. Her bountiful head of coils took refuge from the showcase of its potential beauty.

Dragging on the fiery pavement taking the filth of the city streets with it, was the over sized ragged pants that hung from her not so frail frame. She schlepped with a tremendous amount of poundage, and the toil of it generously appeared in the faint lines that settled in the pilgrimage along her face.

She was accustomed to the visual eclipse of her presence when pedestrians passed her by, and she welcomed their overt dismissal of her existence. However, it was their nostrils that couldn’t deny the scent that her passage left behind. It was an intoxicating aroma that didn’t speak to her socially depressed appearance. And its lingering release caused an occasional few to pause in bewilderment due to its pleasing fragrance.

The ignition that paced her steps were laggard, unhurried. It led to the assumption that her destination was purposeless. A vagrant on an aimless expedition.

She entered the building.

Her steps took on an incline as she scaled the dimly lit, cracked stairwell that led her to the uppermost landing. The penthouse of her habitation. The residential haven appeared to offer nothing more than the brick and mortar of its foundation.

Broken glass casements invited in the seasons, and straying inhabitants of nature.

The unsecured entry into one’s personal asylum welcomed the more daring visitor into a mosaic of despair. There was no encouraging indication that would suggest any semblance of hope.

It was a somber and impoverished landscape.

Dismantling the security of the metal door the insertion of a small rusted instrument gave her access to the other side. A demure space with an uncluttered, and taintless presentation. The scent that left a loitering trail when she walked on the street engulfed the air between the cold concrete of the four walls. I

t was pretty and sensual. A posh aroma that was clearly displaced in its settlement here.

She disrobed from the offensive layers of her street apparel.

The removal of her head covering no longer presented the potential of beautiful locks, but the bold presentation of them. Coarse, flowing silver coils that benefitted from her attention were released and took a regal pause, resting on her shoulders. It brought a softness to the landscape of her oval face and a glow to her deep amber ring-shaped eyes, the windows to her private consciousness.

Under an enfeebled flow of tepid water mixed with a foamy lather, she attentively cleansed her body.

She stepped out of the rusted porcelain tub. With a plush towel she absorbed the droplets of water that clung to her soft skin. Draped in clean, well-kept clothing her appearance behind the metal door was more accepting, visually appealing.

A chocolate vinyl sofa with an alabaster throw served as a place for rest and casual dining. In a vault of her private memories is where she held the more formal dining experiences from her past.

She prepared her evening supper. A translucent glass plate was placed on top of a four-foot high cardboard box. It was swathed with generous inches of paisley embroidered fabric, drizzled in threads of gold. Her majestic cloth was blemished with a stain that she concealed with the placement of the disk-shaped glass dish.

There was an arrangement of appetizing colors on her plate. The scents traveling through her facial tunnels offered an aromatic satisfaction that occurred before the fork reached her lips and introduced itself to her palate. Her teeth gently cut into the limb of a freshly seasoned fowl, complimented by the savory offering of earth’s herbaceous leafy greens.

The crevices of her tongue waited for the absorption of the flavors. They digested, bringing her to the satiety of her daily sustenance. She cleared her dining space, resuming her evening residency on the sofa with a glass of sparkling libation.

She reached beneath the sofa.

Her twisted strands fell and sheltered the sides of her face. She pulled out a wooden box that was intricately stenciled and delicately handled. The security of its contents was safeguarded with a key that dangled from her neck.

Carved- out blades of the metal hardware permitted her access inside of the square timber chest.

The inside housed a small framed copy of a lottery ticket, and a bank ledger in expanse of a five-million- dollar balance. Outside of the box, intermingling with the expensive scent released from the tiny hidden holes in her skin, was the reek of fear.

The fear of living a life that would lift the eclipse of her vagabond public appearance and welcome her. A communal reception beckoning her into a place that had fractured her and left her broken. She retreated with only the consoling memoirs of the preceding chapters.

The only prize that she permitted herself to have, was the high-priced bottle of perfume.

The pricey packaged liquid causing passers-by to take pause as they visually dismissed her existence. Yet they enjoyed the lavishly pleasing scent that she offered them from her win fall. This was a token of her generosity.

Tomorrow, she will once again put on her layers of fear, emerge under the mist of her expensive perfume, and become an illusionist. Deliberately giving permission for the societal bigoted to “Judge a Book by its Cover.”