I could not leave her behind, the plain-looking but noble heroine whose life had been enfolded in the torn, brittle pages of a book no longer useful to its owner. I found Tales of a Forgotten Love in the trash at work, tossed unceremoniously in with discarded, half-eaten lunches and all other detritus common to a typical work place.
Never one to commit the sacrilege of throwing away a book -- even a paperback -- I reached into the waste basket, pulled out the sad-looking little paperback, and wiped off the egg salad that had smeared itself about the torn cover. Double sacrilege: wasting good food and better literature.
The book's cover, now cleared of the disguise of egg and mayo, displayed the portrait of what appeared to be a lady of the 19th century. She was smiling faintly, as though she had something to say but had not yet found the proper words nor the moment for timely expression. She was not a female beautiful by today's superficial standards, yet some indefinable inner light illumined her face. I sensed it; it was not the artist's rendering that put me into that thought.
I opened the book, determined to discover what inner beauty lay within this woman whose outward appearance would capture little notice . . .
