Relative Beauty.(Short story)

Byline: Elizabeth Benedict

In a pair of sisters, there's always the smart one and the pretty one. So what happens when the line between them begins to blur?

I have a very pretty sister. How do I know? My friends tell me. "Wow," one of them exclaimed recently, looking through a photo album in my apartment. "That's your sister? She's beautiful." I waited a moment to see if the compliment would extend to me. For instance: "She looks just like you." But there was only silence and a second glance at the photograph. Years ago, one of my best friends told me that my sister is prettier than I am. I noted that he didn't say "even prettier than you are," which would have been a hair's breadth less insulting. He has always been a dear friend, and I charitably wrote off the comment to the demon rum that was also his friend in those days. Still, the truth hurts, even when it's delivered by a drunk.

When my sister and I walk down the street together, she is the one who men's eyes follow. I'm not an ugly ducklingmy husband of ten years was pleased with my exterior, and my current partner of almost as many years is, toobut when I see photographs of us side by side, it's obvious why heads turn Nancy's way.

"Really?" she said with surprise when I pointed this out to her a while ago. "They look at me? I hadn't noticed."

"I have," I said. It's always the one not being noticed who notices.

This tension explains why the only picture of my only sibling on display in my apartment is a snapshot from a comic theater production where she played a dotty old woman. Instead of my showing off the svelte, glamorous bride she was three years ago, she wears a hideous wig, outlandish glasses, and plastic fangs. "Who's that?" visitors ask. "My sister." "Older or younger?" "Younger. Three years." "It's kind of hard to tell." "Yeah." End of conversation.