A Beautiful Poison

by Lydia Kang

Allene watched in the mirror but looked down after being disappointed, once again, that she wasn’t as beautiful as Mary Pickford and had none of the mysterious, arresting presence of Theda Bara. “Well looking” never seemed reasonable compensation for not being heartbreakingly beautiful.

She was a woman, after all. It was their lot in life, wasn’t it? Never to own yourself completely.

Death had always hit Jasper with a concrete wave that forced him to think of survival, not of sorrow; of next steps and of wanting to claw beyond the audacity of hurt.

“I never pushed him away. I never said no. But it didn’t matter, did it? Because I had no choice.” The flat tone of her voice underscored the fact that Andrew wasn’t a pleasure in her life. Her shoulders drooped like she could barely tolerate the weight of the air.

“Acceptissima semper, munera sunt, auctor quae pretiosa facit.” Mr. Rossi turned to Ernie for a translation. “It’s Ovid. The most acceptable gifts . . . are the ones made precious by our love of the giver.”