I Have a Mad Renaissance Crush on Botticelli

As I turn the pages of the magazine, I imagine life for the girls inside. They sleep with nothing on, removing their skin each night and placing it in the icebox. Upon waking they slip it on over their bones, and eat a breakfast of non-fat yogurt before rushing to the tanning bed to change the color of their husk. They alter the hue of their hair, as well as its texture using heat to dispose of their curls. To my lover, Botticelli (a long distance relationship of time and space), they look like peasants. I am a queen in his creation. He relishes in my pale skin and tickles the curve of my belly with his paintbrush on the canvas. He gets lost in my soft thighs and worships every one of the curls plated in gold that fall down my back. After he paints me, we take a cup of chocolate together. We laugh about how art and beauty will take such a twist in the future, how the students in my class will not recognize me in his masterpiece.