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I sat down on a bench to rest my weary legs. Next to me, a woman watched the crowds in the street. She looked... Odd, somehow. Out of place in the hustle and bustle of the business men on the city streets.

What do you do? I asked her. She turned to me and smiled.

I deal in beauty, was her response. That intrigued me.

You make cosmetics? I guessed. She shook her head.

You do hair-care products? I tried. She shook her head again.

What do you do then? I asked, giving up the guessing game.

I deal in beauty, in the arts. She explained.

Arts? What do you mean? What sort of arts? I didn't get it. How could she deal in 'beauty' by dealing in the arts?

I will explain, She informed me, gazing out at the miserable masses on the streets. I write. I put my pen to the paper, and beauty pours forth.

I wasn't so sure about this. Those business letters I received every day certainly couldn't be considered art.

I draw, She continued. I put my brush to the paper, and beauty pours forth.

This made more sense, I guessed. I was watching her hands now. They were moving in the air, as though she were painting the sky.

I sing, She murmured. I open my mouth, and beauty pours forth.

Her hands now moved as though conducting a choir. I was starting to get it.

I dance, She went on. My feet touch the stage, and beauty pours forth.

Her hands moved to dance in the air in front of her.

I make music, She told me. I lift my instrument, and beauty pours forth.

Her hands drew across the invisible strings of a violin, and she turned to me.

Do you understand? She asked me.

This time I did. For at one time, I had dealt in beauty as well. Then, I had gotten caught up in the strict business of this world. Maybe, it was time to return to the trade of beauty.

Thank you, I told her. She simply smiled at me. For she knew I understood, and that now, beauty needed no explanation.