She had a pink-polka dotted umbrella. Yes, that’s what caught my eye that dreary day. The way she flaunted and twirled it above her shoulder as she leaned against the lamppost. The way its charming rosy dots rounded into the placid chocolate shade. It was that brown color that matched the cascade of hair that descended onto her back into thick waves. She stood anxiously or uncomfortably; I couldn’t tell. It was probably the six inch heels that ascended her heels and her height. Her face, angular, every blemish faded under powder and pluck; her eyelashes curled, extended, and darkened by a black, splotchy mixture. Her eyes harmonized with that rainy day, gray with a hidden light. Her lips, reddened by lipstick, curled into a defiant smile. Slightly curved to one corner, that smile held a secret. When she turned to walk across the street, I noticed something. The pink-polka-dotted umbrella was bent slightly and its handle was held together by duck tape. I didn’t notice these imperfections before; they were hidden under the roof of the umbrella. Yet they gave the umbrella character, and I found myself liking the umbrella even more. How could something so perfect what to be hidden under imperfection?