There is a kind of pretty that a woman is around midnight,

standing in her bathroom,

staring into the mirror under a garish light.

Mascara and foundation freshly removed,

all flaws in her skin have been catalogued, appreciated, and forgotten.

Her hair,

once meticulously tucked back,

has now the cares of the day woven in as well,

and they have blown strands into the cool night breeze.

Tiny curls reminiscent of baby pictures frame her ears.

I am pretty, she remembers.

No makeup.

No bra.

No audience.

Just pajamas and bare feet and the smell of hot tea and toothpaste.

Just her and the mirror.

Sometimes singing, maybe silent.

There is a kind of pretty that a woman is around midnight,

and no one can see it but her.

~ahj