They tend to go out on the town in pairs, I’ve noticed: the conventionally pretty one, all dolled up and shining, and her average-looking friend, who’s barely had time to do her hair. The pretty one, I have a hunch, is generally the instigator. With the plainer one by her side, she thinks she’ll look even more dazzling than usual. And the plainer one goes along with the idea because she wants to bask in her friend’s glow—or maybe because she just doesn’t get out much. I don’t know. I do know, however, that when I spot them and manage to push in beside them at the bar, I often feel sorry for the pretty one.
Because she’s about to learn she’s not the pretty one.
“What are you girls drinking?”
The pretty one answers for both of them in most cases. Hers is the dominant personality, and her heels are higher, too. The plainer one (the supposedly plainer one) isn’t wearing heels. They hurt her feet, and she’s not afraid to say so because she has no image to preserve. This makes her much easier to talk to. It also makes her more interesting to talk to—and, as the night wears on, to look at. By then, see, the bar is full of pretty women, and pretty women tend to look quite similar. They may not look similar before they dress and put on makeup, but afterward they do.
Nunca había sufrido tanto y nunca creí resistir tantas penas. No se imaginan en qué estado estoy y sé que me va a costar años salir de este embrollo de cosas que tengo en la cabeza.
Al principio creí que había remedio todavía pues me imaginaba que lo que pasó sería una cosa que durara poco y sin importancia, pero cada día me convenzo más de que me estaba haciendo ilusiones…
Me siento como perdida, sin nada que pueda ayudarme a reaccionar de una manera inteligente.