Perfect is rubbish. Perfect is boring. Perfect is safe. Perfect is samey. Perfect is burbling lift music next to symphonic power and passion of imperfect, matchless beauty.
Perfect was a kiss from her mum; imperfect was the taste of his sweat and feeling of his nails down her back. His imperfections were the little deviations from the mundane that surprised and stretched her, that recognise life’s richness and expressed what was unique about him and everything he’d ever done. There is beauty in dissonance.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It annoyed her that so many people had reduced that sentiment to a bland truism, saying it without ever thinking it or feeling it. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and she beheld her boy to be very beautiful indeed. He smiled at her through imperfect teeth and looked at her with love through eyes that didn’t work properly, but at least he smiled at her and looked at her.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder... What she liked as much was the flipside –no one is inherently beautiful, with all the supposed superiority that’s meant to come with that. The kind of guy who looked down on her beautiful boy she beheld as decidedly unbeautiful, rendering the arrogant, posing cocksure pricks deflated and impotent. It made her feel powerful. Without anyone to look at them they were like trees falling in forests with no-one to hear them drop. And in many cases they were about as interesting as a piece of inert lumber.
“Hello, beautiful.”
She could smell him before she could see him. He was about to bite off considerably more than his perfect little mouth could chew.
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