There is something magical about a pretty woman who unreservedly opens up about her humble background. Tales like how she had corn porridge for breakfast growing up and picked her nose in class and smeared it on the collar of her patched dress and she could stick chewing gum under her desk and later unstick it and eat it for lunch when other kids had buttered bread and new shoes.
You should see the sparkle of this pretty woman in her eyes when she recalls how her mom endured her father’s drunkardness and slaps and she will tell you how she came to town so naive and twisted an ankle as she tried to walk on life in cheap high-heeled shoes and unmatched shades of lipstick as she sipped Fanta in the night club not knowing whether to dance or nod her head to the loud music of mimicked sophistication.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who is not ashamed to cry at the bus station in colourful rivulets of make-up because you had an argument last night and you decide to go home this morning to visit your grandma who raised you when your own mom died during your birth and she was pretty too.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who dares to dream and can serve tea at a local café just to pay for her tuition and she can surprise you with a pair of boxers and a 200 bob necktie when all you did is spend 5, 000 on beer and friends on Sunday evening and she has to remind you that you have a job interview on Monday 500 kilometers away.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who is not ashamed of saying she has a kid at home because the sonofabitch who ejaculated in her when she was 19 ducked and can’t even call or buy the kid those teddy bear shoes that have disco lights at the soles with an annoying sound or a stub of pencil for him to write tiny poems about absent fathers and the freckles of smiling single baby mamas.
There is something magical about a pretty woman who begs you to stay though she can replace your broke ugly ass any minute because a dozen bachelors with money to burn are preying around her aura like wolves but she is pretty enough to know what love smells like and it is nothing close to your socks or weed or your macho attitude or roses and dust in the rain but she keeps her head up because she is pretty and all pretty things are divine and priceless.
There is something pretty about a magical woman.