Old Souls

          She waltzes over to me, hips swaying. Then, fast as lightning, she reaches up and brushes her mouth over my scarred cheek.           My breath hitches as she lingers, her fingers lightly caressing the line from my temple to my neck. My heart twinges, shifting in my chest, aching for . . . something I can’t have.           She stares at me. “I like your face. It’s you. Oh, you were pretty before the scars—in fact, I liked to call you Henry Cavill . . . that jawline is wicked hot—but now . . .” Her shoulders shift. “You have character. Meaning. You survived and came out on the other side flawed . . . yet beautiful.”           I frown, grappling with how I feel about her words. “I’m not beautiful.”           “Beauty isn’t on the outside. I learned that in the pageants. I met some beautiful women who were ugly on the inside and some who were incredible. Beauty is how we go on, the life we create around us. Living a life that’s meaningful. I’m not sure I’m there, to be honest. I’m