i. Her tits ache.

If there was anyone in the house but her, they would probably think she was groping herself, squeezing the bare flesh in her hand beneath her shirt as she paces. Really, she's looking for the muscle beneath the mammary tissue and the padding, trying to loosen the knot in her pectorals like her $250-an-hour massuer loosens the knots beneath her shoulderblades.

Her fingers brush a rough place and she has to work not to flinch. Still, she rubs just a little lighter, careful.

ii. In the bathroom, she strips her shirt and studies her figure in the mirror.

She tries different poses, angles, to make herself look sexier. She looks at the mirror through her lashes, plumps out her lower lip, tugs down the waistband of her jeans. She crosses her arms over her chest and faces the wall, trying to look over her shoulder like so many glossy magazine ads, but she can't see herself. She turns back and cocks one hip towards the mirror, tracing the lines of her ribcage and now the crease between it and her pelvis.

She prods at her hip, and sighs.

iii. Her sister told her that she had to be comfortable with her body if she expected anyone else to be comfortable with it, either. (Her sister is a Women's Studies major.) So she finds herself a hand mirror, undresses, and lays flat on the bed.

She feels around some, first, not quite up to looking just yet. It feels sort of dry, ridged in strange places, and not quite what she expected. Hesitantly, she slides a fingertip further down, in - and quickly pulls it out, wincing.

Her sister said that women were like flowers, no two alike, but she's not up for sketching out that particular Georgia O'Keefe homage today. Her flower is probably wilted and ugly anyway.