2. What is softer than silk?
Heidi tells herself she wants change even as she lives the same day over and over again.
When she closes her eyes, she sees her arms and thighs flayed to expose long white cords of muscle. There is dew but no blood.
.
Like court jesters in a clown car, the Volturi are effortlessly elegant in Rome. Standing in the cool light well of a sculptor's workshop is Arria and Paetus, the statue Aro commissioned to celebrate his upteenth wedding anniversary. The likenesses of Aro and his bride twist from the marble like maggots from lard.
.
Am I this body, or do I have this body? Men beckon the answer to her across dark lake water.
.
"You're staring holes in my statue," the bride says, her voice slicing through the carminative small talk. Gumpaste flowers of ivory and pearl effloresce around her delicate temples, cloudy-sweet and golden as diabetic urine. "What do you think of it?"
"Get the girl a big rock, and she'll love you forever," Heidi says.
"Aro will give me any token gesture I desire." Sulpicia's eyes roll under perfectly involute lashes. "Honestly, though, I despise impractical gifts."
"If you threw a few cloaks over your statue, it would serve a purpose—and it might be more attractive."
Sulpicia laughs—feminine but not luscious, valentine without excess—exquisite. It has a laxative effect on Heidi's clenched posture. She touches Sulpicia's small wrist. They are like two birds washing in the same mirror.
.
To live without mirrors is to live without the self.
Author's note: the "two birds" line is borrowed from Rapunzel by Anne Sexton. As the last sentence is also paraphrasing Margaret Atwood, this update is perhaps the most unoriginal thing I've ever written. But thanks for reading!