I learned a new word today: Apophasis. It means to describe something by not describing it. It reminded me of a flash I wrote six years ago.
Love Is Blind by Ginger Hamilton Caudill
She wasn't a beauty. The bathroom's countertop wasn't congested
with small jars of creams. Its cold surface wasn't marred by
lipstick stains or smudged with foundation. Her arms weren't
slender or long; her fingers didn't flutter like graceful birds
when she illustrated a point. Her breasts weren't full and heavy,
they didn't threaten to spill out of her brassiere. She hated how
her there was no gentle swell below her waist. Her jeans always
looked as if they belonged to someone else. Her legs weren't
planned in proportion to her pudgy midsection.
Her eyes didn't develop in an exotic almond shape. Her cheeks never
flushed; they remained a sickly pale ivory despite either
embarrassment or excitement. She couldn't go outside without
developing a splash of burnt-orange freckles. Her ears weren't
small and delicate like her sister's. Her eyebrows didn't break at
the right place, nor did they choose to split in the center like
others. Her lips weren't lush and kissable nor even average.
Friends at college had whispered that she'd never marry. "No one
will take a second look at her," they said. She hadn't been
supposed to hear them, but she couldn't help it. They didn't
bother moving away when she drew near.
But she hadn't missed out on love; she'd married a man who
couldn't see her shortcomings.
