Standing in front of the mirror you repress a sigh, both at the nattering 'friend' on the phone and the image you see in front of you.
"... and he didn't even bring me roses!" the girl on the phone says. You make some appropriately outraged sounds, though you've forgotten just what you were talking about. You get a lot of phone calls from girls like this one. Judy? Julie? Whatever. She's some girl who thinks you're friends, and inundates you with the insignificant minutiae of her days. God you wish she'd get another friend.
Your reflection is much more interesting to you, and as always you pick apart your flaws. Breasts too small, belly not flat enough, nose too big, chin too wide, cheeks too shallow, lips too little.
Nevermind that you've danced for years and have the tone and grace to prove it. Your legs might be long and your ass firm but those are things you only note in passing as you eye your nude body from various angles.
"Jenny!" you hear a voice call, and realize it's your mom. You're torn between feeling saved from the girl on the phone and dread. Speaking to your mom's always dicey.
"Gotta go, my mom's calling me," you say in the phone and hang up, tossing it onto the bed.
"What?" you yell, looking around for your robe. |