Amy Arenson

       The only way to make the right decision is to try them both on with those sky
high heels that make you feel like a Sex and the City girl. God, you think, I wish I
had a cigarette. You think it again, this time out loud. There is a rustle in the bed
behind you. You pretend that you didn’t hear it. You try on the straight legged pair
of jeans and walk into the bathroom to examine your ass in the full sized mirror. It
looks pretty good, but the pockets are too small for the top you are planning to wear.
Maybe you should wear a different top. It is strange that you always feel the need to
pick your top before your pants, you think, because the ass is the real selling point.
Then you remember your new breasts, the small ones that you can wear without a bra,
that simply hint at the darkness of the nipple, even through medium weight fabrics.
       You are sure you should wear the bootcut jeans now. The pockets are perfect for
the low cut shirt you plan to wear, plus, you can’t wear a light colored shirt with
light colored jeans; that would be a nightmare. You strip and prepare to get dressed
for real this time, knowing that you are now fifty-one minutes late for the shoot. You
still have to dry and straighten your hair.
       The photographer has taken photos of some of the top models and you want him to
notice you so that he might take some free photos of you for your portfolio. Right now,
lying flaccidly on your dresser, the portfolio looks sad. You know it contains photos of
your hands from many different angles. It even contains a one-of-a-kind charcoal sketch
of your right hand squeezing an overly ripe guava.
       You recall that in all your research you have never discovered a hand model that
has crossed over into the world of full-body modeling. You want to be the first, the
first to show the world that you’re more than a pretty pair of hands. Indeed, your
breasts are even prettier than your hands.
       The rustling in the bed has now been joined by scratching noises, genital
scratching noises. You can imagine the pubes being scratched. You can imagine a few of
the hairs dislodging and falling into your 300 count percale sheets. Great, you think,
after a long day of work you’ll have to come home and sanitize your house.
       You dress. You have decided on the pink, gauzy shirt and the dark, bootcut jeans.
You pair the jeans with a pair of alligator skin-like pink heels. They have a closed toe.
You want to appear modest.
        The scratching has hit new level of intensity and you turn around to confront
the scratcher. You look at him. You guess he is around thirty. His body is pretty good,
a little softer around the middle than you like, but still pretty good.  His hair is the
absolute selling point. He looks like a teenager if you concentrate on his hair. Your
landlord is in your bed with a half smile on his face.

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