The Spotlight

The carpet called out to people of all races and ages. There was an aura of expectancy in the stadium, the spotlight waiting to be graced by someone special.

The music being played was the same as the tunes in countless hotel lobbies and elevators. Kenny G and Beethoveen had been reduced to elevator music. So maybe this was a step up for them. 

But nobody really noticed all that. They waited for the spotlight to be filled. They waited for the example they were supposed to follow for the rest of the year. The one who appeared in that spotlight would decide all the things that mattered. The colours of the year, the length of the skirts, the arch and thickness of the eyebrow. Her opinion would be sought on all things important, and nobody would care that she perhaps did not have the authority to comment.

She would appear under that spotlight, raised there by our love for perfection and sheer beauty. She would have the most perfect skin, the perfect hair, the perfect teeth. Some blessed by God, and what God didn’t seem fit to bestow her with, skilled surgeons took care of it. She would be the model we would all aspire to be.

The red curtain behind the spotlight fluttered, and an audible gasp went through the audience. They waited, and the waiting could be hear. A quick rustle of a silk gown, the muted tones of a cellphone.

It was an advanced age. With technology and the such. But this was a tradition that was maintained since the days of the Oracle. With a few changes. Modernity demanded some changes, some sacrifices in tradition. Some mutations.

She would stand there any moment, like her predecessors. She would perhaps be an inch taller, a couple shorter. Her hair would be a little shorter but no less shinier. She would make the world weep, she would make the world laugh. And we would like to believe, as always, the world a better place. 

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