On a Sunday afternoon, I stand naked before the bathroom mirror as the four o’clock sunlight pours through slits in the window blinds, painting stripes across my glossy skin. I’ve slept away the week’s calamities and traded To Do lists for doing nothing, and for a fantastic fraction of time I am divinity made flesh. Onyx curls frame olive skin and contend with mahogany eyes for center stage. Each arc, each slope of shoulder, breast, and hip becomes an unmapped Eden, an unsung epic, until – a hoary tendril, a traitorous wrinkle, a jagged scar proclaims this goddess a mere mortal.
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