The Day Everyone Became Beautiful

Luke Harwood noticed beautiful women.

That was the polite version. The honest version was that Luke had spent most of his adult life noticing beautiful women with an intensity that embarrassed him, irritated his wife, and once nearly destroyed everything he cared about.

The strangest part was that his wife was beautiful. Not beautiful for 44; Luke hated phrases like that, as though attractiveness came with an age-adjustment table. Adrianna was simply stunning. She had dark hair, brown eyes, a figure that three children had somehow done remarkably little to change, and the kind of face strangers remembered. Luke still occasionally caught men looking at her in restaurants. He always noticed. Sometimes he even enjoyed it.

And none of it had prevented him from cheating on her.

Once. Thirteen years ago.

Luke could decorate that fact with circumstances. He had been drinking. Their marriage had been struggling. The other woman had pursued him. He had been younger, angrier, more impulsive. All true. None of it mattered. He had cheated, and Adrianna had stayed.

That should have cured him. It didn’t.

There had been others since. Not affairs…almosts. A coworker whose texts became too personal until Adrianna found them. A woman at a conference Luke drank with until two in the morning; nothing happened, but Adrianna correctly observed that nothing happening wasn’t the same as nothing being intended. Three years ago, she found messages between Luke and an old girlfriend. Again, nothing physical. Again, bullshit.

Luke had become exceptionally skilled at approaching a line without technically crossing it. He hated that about himself. He also knew he’d notice the next beautiful woman who walked through the door.

Belle Fourche, South Dakota, limited the opportunities, and Luke liked that. He lived outside town, where prairie began surrendering to the Black Hills and a man could drive 10 minutes without seeing another vehicle. He taught statistics, consulted on the side, volunteered around town, drank beer with men who thought his doctorate was amusing, and lived a life geographically smaller than the one he’d imagined at 25. He was mostly happy. Beautiful women were simply one of the stupid rewards his brain insisted upon collecting.

And there weren’t many. Luke privately estimated that he saw one truly stunning woman every week or two. Attractive women were common enough. Pretty women, certainly. But the kind who made him momentarily forget what he was doing? Rare.

Which was why the first one that Saturday morning felt like good luck.

He was driving to Rapid City for errands: dog food, printer ink, saw blades, groceries, a birthday present for his youngest daughter, and a phone charger Adrianna had specifically warned him not to forget. He stopped for coffee and gas on the way.

The woman at the neighboring pump was spectacular. Dark hair through a baseball cap, black leggings, form-fitting black athletic top. Maybe 30. Luke looked, then looked again. She caught him. He immediately turned toward the pump, and when he glanced back, she was smiling.

Luke climbed into his truck. “Hell of a start.”

The second appeared outside a hardware store. Tall, auburn hair, fitted black halter top beneath an open jacket. She passed close enough that Luke caught her perfume.

“Jesus.”

The third was inside the next store. Blonde, perhaps 40, black sleeveless dress. Luke stopped pushing his cart.

Three. That was a good Saturday.

At 10:41am, number four crossed the parking lot wearing black jeans and a tight black blouse. At 10:53am, number five stood ahead of him at checkout in a ribbed black tank top. At 11:02am, number six jogged past his truck in black running shorts and a fitted black quarter-zip. Luke watched her disappear behind a row of vehicles.

Six.

Something scratched at the mathematical part of his brain. He opened Notes.

10:05ish – gas station – brunette

10:20 – hardware – redhead

10:33 – blonde

10:41 – parking lot – brunette

10:53 – checkout – blonde

11:02 – runner – brunette

Luke stared at the screen. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He almost deleted it. Then number seven walked past. She was older, maybe 50, with black hair streaked with silver. Fitted black sweater. Jeans. Absolutely beautiful.

Luke added her.

Seven women in approximately an hour. He began calculating despite knowing the calculation was garbage. His normal rate was perhaps one exceptional woman every seven to 14 days, but exposure wasn’t constant. Rapid City had more people than Belle Fourche. Saturdays meant crowds. His definition of beauty was subjective. There was no valid denominator.

Still. Seven.

By 11:30am, there were ten.

Luke sat in his truck, and that was when he noticed the other variable.

Black.

Every one of them.

He reviewed the list. Black leggings. Black halter top. Black dress. Black blouse. Black tank. Black running clothes. Black sweater. Number eight had worn a fitted black T-shirt; number nine, a black bodycon dress beneath a denim jacket; number ten, black yoga pants and a fitted black hoodie.

Luke looked around the parking lot. Women passed everywhere. A mother in gray wrestled a toddler into a car seat. An elderly woman wore blue. Two college-aged women walked together, one in green, the other in white. Ordinary.

Then a woman stepped from a pickup. Black tank top beneath an open flannel shirt. Gorgeous.

Eleven.

She looked directly at Luke. He looked away.

His phone buzzed.

ADRIANNA: How’s Rapid?

Luke smiled.

LUKE: Productive. Couple more stops. Need anything?

Her response arrived immediately.

ADRIANNA: My charger.

“Fuck.” He had forgotten.

LUKE: Already on the list.

It wasn’t. Luke added it. Then, almost automatically:

11:46 – brunette – black tank

He stared at the screen, and something about it made him ashamed. Not the looking. The cataloging. Thirteen years ago, his affair had begun with exactly this kind of private compartment; something small he kept because Adrianna didn’t need to know. Then another. Then another. Secrets rarely arrived looking dangerous.

Luke deleted the list.

At lunch, his waitress was pretty. Brown hair, white shirt. He felt relieved. He ordered a burger and a Coke.

Outside the window, Rapid City remained reassuringly ordinary. A heavyset woman in purple scrubs. A teenager in a hoodie. An elderly couple. A mother carrying an infant.

Luke laughed. Confirmation bias, that was all. Once he’d noticed black clothing, he’d started searching for it. Once he’d decided there were unusually beautiful women around, he’d begun evaluating every face. His brain had manufactured a mystery.

Then a woman walked past his table. Black pencil skirt, form-fitting black turtleneck, long blonde hair. Luke stopped chewing. She looked at him, held his eyes, and smiled.

Twelve.

Luke reopened Notes. By the time he paid, there were 15.

He sat in his truck without starting it. Fifteen. More women he considered breathtaking in two hours than he could remember seeing in the previous year. That wasn’t literally true.

Probably.

The uncertainty bothered him. Luke taught people not to confuse improbable with impossible. Humans were terrible intuitive statisticians; they found patterns in noise and intention in coincidence. He knew all of that.

He also knew something was fucking wrong.

Across the parking lot stood number 16. Black workout leggings, fitted black sleeveless top. She wasn’t walking. She was watching him.

Luke lowered his phone. The woman turned, opened a white SUV, and climbed inside. For the first time all day, Luke didn’t care that she was beautiful. He tried memorizing the license plate. Then he considered following her, and the thought disgusted him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He started the truck. One final stop. Charger. Home.

Number 17 stood near the electronics-store entrance wearing a black minidress beneath a long cardigan. Luke ignored her. Number 18 was examining headphones in a black fitted T-shirt. He kept moving. His heartbeat accelerated. Number 19 was looking at the new release movie section in black workout gear that left little to the imagination.

Then he reached the phone chargers, and a woman stood directly in front of them.

Number 20.

She looked about 38. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, black sleeveless mock-neck top tucked into dark jeans. Of all of them, she was the one. Exactly Luke’s type.

That realization brought something ugly with it. He thought of the woman from 13 years ago; not because they resembled each other, but because his body remembered before his conscience did. The little electrical charge. Possibility. He hated it.

The woman held a phone charger. “iPhone?”

“Yeah.”

“Last one.” She handed it to him.

“Lucky me.”

Something changed in her expression. “You’ve had a lot of that today.”

Luke’s smile vanished. “Excuse me?”

She turned away. Luke followed two steps. “What does that mean?”

She stopped. “Has today seemed strange to you?”

Luke felt cold. “Who are you?”

“Amelia.”

“Luke.”

“I know.”

Every muscle in his body tightened. Amelia raised a hand. “Sorry. That sounded creepy.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You used your rewards account at the sporting-goods store.”

“How would you know that?”

“I was there.”

Luke searched his memory. “I didn’t see you.”

“I know.”

Those two words landed differently.

“What the fuck is happening?”

“I hoped you knew.”

“Knew what?”

Amelia looked around. “Have you noticed anything unusual about people today?”

Luke considered lying. “Women.”

“How many?”

“Nineteen.”

Amelia looked almost disappointed. Luke glanced at her clothes. “Twenty, counting you.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

A customer entered the aisle. Amelia stepped closer. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Luke almost laughed. “Tell anyone what? I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Neither do I.”

“What are you seeing?”

Amelia hesitated. “People recognizing me.”

“Recognizing you?”

“Seven people today have insisted they know me. Different places. Different names. One woman cried. A man called me Rebecca. Someone else called me Sarah.”

“Coincidence.”

“Seven?”

Luke said nothing. His own argument had turned around and bitten him.

Amelia removed a receipt from her purse and wrote something on it: a phone number, no last name. “If something else happens.”

Luke stared at the paper, and a familiar warning sounded inside him. This was how it started. Not with sex. With permission. A reason to continue contact. A secret that could be defended.

“I’m married.”

“So am I.”

“This isn’t…“

“I know what this isn’t.” Amelia pushed the receipt toward him.

Luke didn’t take it. For a moment.

Then he did. “This is just because something weird is happening.”

Amelia’s smile was almost sad. “I’m sure you’ve said that kind of thing before.”

Luke stared at her. “What did you say?”

But she was already walking away. He followed. “Amelia.”

She turned the corner. By the time Luke reached the next aisle, she was gone.

He bought the charger.

The receipt sat in his cup holder during the drive home. Luke considered throwing it out the window, but littering stopped him, and he laughed at the absurdity of that. Adultery, apparently negotiable. Littering, absolutely not.

He considered calling Adrianna. He imagined telling her everything. Instead, he drove.

At a stoplight, Luke entered Amelia’s number and stared at the blank contact field. Amelia. No surname. He realized he hadn’t asked, and that bothered him more than it should have. He could save it anyway. Instead, he typed Saturday, stared at that, and decided it was worse.

He deleted the contact. Kept the receipt. That distinction wasn’t lost on him.

Adrianna was in the kitchen when he arrived, wearing jeans and a fitted gray shirt, her dark hair pulled loosely behind her head. Luke stopped in the doorway. After everything he’d seen that day, she was still breathtaking. That somehow made him feel worse.

“You remembered?”

Luke held up the charger. “Of course.”

Adrianna kissed him, and he felt guilt immediately. Nothing had happened. Yet his brain supplied the word anyway: Nothing had happened yet. Luke hated himself for it.

Adrianna caught him staring. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”

Luke laughed. “Can’t I tell my wife she’s beautiful?”

“You can. You usually do it right before confessing something stupid.”

There it was. History.

Luke smiled, but Adrianna kept watching him. For a moment he wanted to tell her. Then he pictured the receipt.

“Long day.”

“How was Rapid?”

“Busy.”

“Meet anyone interesting?”

Luke’s stomach tightened. “Why would you ask that?”

Adrianna’s expression changed. “Jesus, Luke.”

“Sorry.”

“Thirteen years and that’s still where your mind goes?”

The words hurt because they were deserved. Luke looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Adrianna softened. “I was kidding.”

“I know.”

But he hadn’t.

She touched his face, and Luke thought about all the ways he’d measured women throughout his life. Pretty. Hot. Average. Gorgeous. Too old. Too heavy. Perfect. He’d reduced thousands of human beings to private scores nobody had asked him to assign. Worse, some part of him behaved as though exceptional beauty represented opportunity. Even married to Adrianna. Especially when novelty appeared.

Luke went to the bathroom and locked the door. He removed Amelia’s receipt. He should tear it up. Instead, he photographed it.

Then he tore it up.

Luke stared at the pieces in the trash. The hypocrisy was so perfect he almost admired it. He had destroyed the evidence while preserving the information; exactly the sort of technical innocence he’d spent half his life constructing.

At 9:47pm, Luke was sitting beside Adrianna watching television when his phone buzzed. Unknown number. His heart accelerated before he opened it.

Did you tell her?

Luke looked toward Adrianna. She hadn’t noticed. He typed: I didn’t tell her anything.

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Returned.

Good. Don’t tell anyone.

Luke typed: What the hell is happening?

Nothing. Then: Why were they all wearing black?

The response came quickly.

I didn’t tell you about the black.

Luke sat upright.

“What?” Adrianna asked.

“Nothing. Work thing.”

The lie arrived effortlessly. That frightened him.

His phone buzzed.

There were 23.

Luke stared. He counted mentally. Nineteen before Amelia. Twenty with her.

Another message.

You only noticed 19 before me.

His mouth went dry. There had been three others. Women Luke hadn’t noticed.

Women someone else had.

He typed: Who is this?

The answer came immediately.

Amelia.

No last name. Another message arrived.

You really don’t recognize me?

Luke stopped breathing. He enlarged the profile icon. Nothing. No photograph. He looked toward Adrianna; she was watching television.

His phone buzzed.

That’s okay. You weren’t supposed to.

Luke stood. “Bathroom.”

Adrianna looked at him strangely. “You just went.”

“I know.”

He walked down the hallway and closed the bedroom door instead. His hands were shaking.

What do you want?

The typing indicator appeared.

Nothing from you.

Then:

This wasn’t about what we wanted.

He typed: Then what was it about?

The response took nearly a minute.

You.

Luke stared at the word. Another message.

There were 23 women dressed for you today.

His pulse hammered. What does dressed for me mean?

No response.

Why black?

Nothing.

Why me?

The typing indicator appeared. Stopped. Appeared again. Finally:

Because you always look.

Luke’s stomach turned. The gas station. The hardware store. The restaurant. The parking lots. All those women. All those glances.

Not coincidence.

Observation.

He typed: Who is we?

Nothing.

Then Adrianna appeared behind him. “Luke?”

He nearly dropped the phone. She stood in the doorway, and her expression wasn’t angry. That would have been easier. She looked tired.

“What are you doing?”

“Work.”

“At 10:00pm on Saturday?”

Luke opened his mouth. His phone buzzed. Adrianna’s eyes moved toward it.

For one second, Luke considered handing her the phone. Everything. The women. Amelia. The messages. The receipt he’d photographed before destroying it. Thirteen years of approaching lines and explaining afterward why he technically hadn’t crossed them.

He could tell her. He should tell her.

Instead, he locked the screen. “Nothing important.”

Adrianna watched him. Then she nodded. “Okay.”

She walked away. Luke hated the relief he felt.

His phone buzzed again. He waited until Adrianna disappeared down the hallway, then unlocked it.

One final message.

We needed to know which ones you’d see.