“You’re a regular Birth of Venus“
I was leaning against a tree outside the library, reading American Gods. I looked up to see the speaker, a woman with asymmetrical hair and piercings who was carrying a stack of books.
“You know, I’ve never been hit on at a library before.” She laughed, and shifted her books to one arm to shake my hand.
“I’m a photographer, Kiera Patel.”
“Oh, hey! I’ve seen your work in a gallery downtown. It’s very Italian Renaissance meets Quentin Tarantino. I still don’t think I’ve got a Kim Kardashian body, though.”
“Nah, she’s more Bastet. You’re more of a Botticelli painting.”
“You should’ve seen me a few years back. I was real bony. Kinda ghoulish-lookin’.” She studied me for a moment.
“You guessed it.”
“My sister’s in treatment, so I know the drill. I hope your head has recovered as much as your body. You look real healthy, if a little sun-burnt.”
“Hey, don’t knock the lobster look. I’ve been biking around the city all morning. But what can I do for you?”
“I have a new project in the works. Have you ever posed?”
“For friends and more-than-friends. But nothing paid or published. I’m still shy of eighteen.”
“Whoa. You don’t look it. That’s a bummer. How long ’til your number goes up?”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you in six months. See ya ’round, Venus.”
When I made it home, my cheeks and shoulders were red, and my legs were aching. I went to the bathroom to wash my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. I put my hands on my hips, and struck a Wonder Woman pose. I looked ready to kick some ass. Maybe she was right. Botticelli might’ve liked my hips.
“You go, little twig. You go,” I told my reflection.