Chapter 4

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"The throat," Venus says, pointing to the long, delicate curvature revealed by her tilted head, "as well as the wrists and ankles, are areas never to be overlooked." She levels her head to look me in the eye. "Yet you must never accentuate all three. Overkill is a woman's greatest enemy. Now, we will need this simple multi-color package of ribbons to help teach you to paint. But of the nicer ones, which suits you?"

Teach me to paint? Doesn't she know I received nearly three-quarters of an undergraduate degree for free because of a single supposedly "brilliant and compelling" painting? It's not like my current painting of her is anything close to my best work.

I decide to let it go. Let's just get on with the task at hand.

We stand before a thousand spools of ribbons in all sizes, shapes and patterns. Well, three hundred, anyway. I suppose exaggeration is overkill, too.

I look at the ribbons, but cannot seem to focus. Something in here makes me feel uneasy. How long has it been since I was in any craft store? Probably Halloween, at age ten or eleven. Whenever it was I was no longer interested in having a costume made for me. I recall Gina, our long-term Italian housekeeper, was a whiz at sewing and crafts. Though my mother paid her handsomely to create Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz or a little girl Ghost Buster, I was always aware that the other children's mothers either made or bought their costumes themselves. Even a cheap, store-bought costume caught my envy, if there was a loving, attentive mother behind it.

It always made me wonder what was wrong with me, that I had a mother completely disinterested in everything except marriageable men and social registers. A mother who only showed up at school events in order to show off her latest designer pantsuit.

Yet she did show up, I would always make sure to remind myself.

"Choose," Venus urges impatiently, sounding so much like my mother I immediately recognize the uneasy feeling this place brings up: a strong dose of self-pity combined with the guilt of ingratitude. After all, I won the best costume contest year after year. Who could fault a mother for that?

"Whatever," I say to my choice of ribbons, then remember Venus does not like the use of that word. "I mean, any of them will be fine."

Truthfully, I cannot imagine wearing ribbons in any way at my neck, wrists or ankles. Just a little too fu-fu for me. But I'm not going to tell the wife of the God of Crafts and Creations that. I can keep my ingratitude to myself, just like my mother taught me. Yet even as I think this, another old emotion arises: that bitter emptiness that comes from selling out to keep the peace.

Venus eyes me strangely, as if she's not sure chastisement or pity is in order.

"Well then, how about this one?" She grabs the ugliest bright red ribbon I can imagine. The way she says it, with sarcasm oozing, her intent is obvious. Clearly, not just any ribbon will do. Unless you don't mind being wrapped at the neck like a doggie on Christmas morning.

I look at the offerings again. Every color, width, and texture is here. Lace, beaded, multi-colored. Tiny braids, huge satin. None stick out. I guess I'm just not a ribbons-at-the-neck kind of girl.

"What kind of look are we going for?" I ask, trying to sound interested.

Venus takes one of my fingers and rubs it along a black velvet spool. "Forget the look. That takes care of itself. Choose something that makes you feel."

"Feel what?"

"Sensual would be a good start."

"Sensual? I thought that was going to be pretty much automatic once you invade my body."

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