There was a girl in my class at a community college near Chicago. I thought she was one of the most beautiful girls I’d ever seen. My memory fails me in some ways these days. It was so long ago. I must have been in a word processing class. It could have been another class, but I seem to remember her in the lab while I was there. The girl had long curly hair that was frizzy on rainy days. I admired the way she let it hang frizzy and untamed. Wild and free. Her hair was brunette. Sunny days, when she walked to her car, I saw golden highlights among the dark curls.  

Long ago, I knew her name. I have forgotten it. She wasn’t tall. Medium height. Her lips weren’t luscious. Simple lips. She was nothing like the girls on the cover of glamour magazines with their pouty lips and long legs. I can’t put my finger on the thing or things that made her beautiful to me unless it was her smile. Or perhaps it was all her imperfections that made her so uniquely beautiful.

She smiled. All the time. When walking into the room, she smiled. When bumped by a student rushing into the class, she smiled. After dropping her books, she laughed softly and kneeled to pick them up, telling others she was clumsy. Freckles went across her nose and on the tops of her cheeks. I’m sure there were more freckles on her face, but those were the most noticeable.

One of her upper front teeth was crooked. Just barely. I loved to see that tooth, the way it seemed to be trying to fit in beside the others, as if the tooth were a person, standing at an angle, unable to fit into a crowd before a photographer snaps the photo. The imperfection of that tooth was perfect. Yes, perfect. It was white but not blinding white. She didn’t try to hide her teeth. She smiled all the time.

I hope she never got the tooth fixed.