Ambiguous

“Hey! Bella! Come here for a second.”

I buckle my shoe and adjust the bandage on my right pinkie toe before getting up.

“Yes Mike*?” I smile at him the same way I do at some customers. Sweet, obedient, non-threatening.

“Tell me something." He looks up at me from his computer screen, the necklace perpetually stretched tight across his wide neck reflecting his myspace page. "Do your friends know you do this?”

“Well some do, I gue-“

“No I mean, like your family and shit. Do they know that you dance?”

“No, why?”

“Oh, well we’re going to be taking some pictures for our website and I was wondering if you wanted to model for it.”

“Naw. Thanks anyway though.” I smile sweetly.

“No problem doll. I’m asking everybody.”

It's hot...

It's hot... ungodly hot. I lay naked, stretched across damp sheets, tentatively reveling in the foreign-ness of it all. I roll and stretch, and the pools of sweat that formed in the hollow places of my hips and collar shift into running streams, flowing across my shoulders and haunches.
I rarely see myself fully nude. I hop from clothing to shower without more than a glance at the mirror. I stroke my wrist; its sad how foreign my own body has become. I notice now, the swells of my breasts and the stretchmarks faintly visible only when I lay down.
A stray hair clings to my chest, long and dark, and definitely not mine. My breath pushes it down, a lone tumbleweed on the open expanse of my torso. The soft slopes and hills I so despise while standing are now akin the to Midwestern plains I have only seen flashing by through train windows.
The hair rolls, peaks on my hip and tumbles off my thigh. Maybe I am beautiful.