Beauty was an outcast; she's always been, they whispered. Eyes were glued to her with specified looks- none of jealousy, no- of fear, disdain, confusion. Beauty, she was a rarity. The aura surrounding her was dangerous, as it temptingly tantalized all who stared.
The looks followed her everywhere; it's that aura of- peculiarity? (Who knew?) Always some subtle oddities; often she would walk into the coffee shop and pay in francs, and when the all-too-American cashier demanded the US-Dollar, she became discomfited and re-handed him the proper coins. At the exchange of the change, she whispered almost inaudibly, "Who would want cheddar when they could have savoie?" Sophistication; at least she tried. A weakling, they whispered at the tables. Weak and a little insane.
All the world's a stage, and Beauty was always the solitary funambulist, balancing carefully above all else. She did not want to fall, for she would be no more; her entire existence would be smeared like Brie on a rigid cracker. She could not hesitiate, nor look anywhere but ahead; others set such high standards for her, looking down would absolutely kill her.
Nobody chattered with Beauty, not one person who looked up at her from below. Antisocial and larger than life, she fluttered through her days, carefully retracing each step of the way.
Every moment of each day, the crowd would stare and stare; not a day passed where you could not listen and pick up the words, "I don't understand."
They didn't understand.