Sophie Kipner

Veronica Lake

“What’s under your hair?” the man in the yellow suit said as he pointed towards the undulating sea of blonde that fell upon the right side of her face. Just as the ocean leaves a moving mark along a shoreline, so her hair drifted in and out of place, all the while never exposing her eye. This of course was quite puzzling to the man in the yellow suit.

He received from her just a blank stare as she stood there, enveloped by and frozen in his bold curiosity. So, without a sign of encouragement or rejection, he lifted the silky curtain out of her face, confirming his suspicion of what was underneath: a scar as deep as the knot in her throat. 

He took one step towards her. The heavy smoke from his cigar enclosed them in a circle too intimate for strangers, and he whispered—with his cigar balanced precariously between his teeth and lips—words only meant to be said in meter:

“There is a Lake that covers your face.

Under it, you’re convinced, lies a disgrace.

But that beauty mark isn’t holding you back,

You’re not a mansion built on a shack.”

Without a closing statement and to her dismay, he just turned around and walked away. So she sucked in the lingering remnants of his husky voice, enchanted still by this strange man. Veronica drew her hand to her hair and slowly tucked her signature locks behind her ears, leaving only an imprint where her hair once fell.