The Criteria for Beauty

"Your bike is dirty," she said when he pushed it into the elevator.
"Yes, isn't it just beautiful," he said smiling. "It loves nature."

"You have the criteria for beauty," said the Chinese teacher. We were going down. Neon red floor numbers practiced subtraction.

Her arms were filled with thin standard brown student exercise books. She'd finished grading them with her sharp red pen. The books dripped blood on her shoes.

"Beauty is it's own criteria, as it's own criteria," he said. The door opened. He followed her with his dirty mountain bike.

She carried the books to the guard shack next to the partially closed black gate. A tight squeeze. Inside, the passive guard was watching bland tame soap operas at a high decibel level. Reruns.

Her students would trek over to collect them. She passed her responsibility with authority.

He pedalled away toward a dirt road in the mountains and beauty's natural criteria. Where he would sit in silence hearing wind sing through evergreens.