Goddess of Beauty

It had taken her two hours to pick out a blouse.

Linen, almost weightless as it fell over her shoulders. A rich navy to contrast the stark white of her capris; a swatch of skin revealed with each slip of her neckline. She stared into the mirror, ebony would go well with the ensemble, as would a deep tan. Of course, she couldn’t control the color of her flesh. Most of the time it was too much of a chore to even contemplate what pigment painted her complexion.

A sigh left her lips. It used to be so easy knowing the wiles of her company, what made them crazy with lust and adoration. She’d sip their desire with tainted lips, any shade they had wanted washed over them. Sometimes a pale dusting of color, or a deep scarlet, oftentimes the hues of crushed mulberries, and those were only the tones for the mortals.

Back then, all she had had to adorn herself with had been the color of royalty. Enthralled with the wealth purple signified, wrapped in it, swaddled almost; no one put a price on her looks when there was a richer prize to be found. In a way, greed bridged the gap between the past and present.

She scoffed, adjusting her collar. Apparently, she had picked up something from her husband.

“The greatest failure of the human race,” He had grunted, “is their unwavering inclination towards possession.”

The metal in his arms had fallen harshly against the stone slab between them. Despite the suffocating heat of his workshop, she recalled how deep a breath he had indulged in, how refreshed the air made him. For a moment, she had contemplated him as a mortal, the tang of iron in the air replenishing the stash of iron in his veins, keeping him alive, his blood pumping. Staring at her hand, golden ichor seeping through her veil of flesh, she had wondered what the tint of red would make her appear as, and for the first time in her infinite life, had briefly envied the sight of those who would die.

She had been glad that he was wearing the mask. Her gaze shifted to meet his through the curtain of tinted glass.

“Have you been conversing with Athena?” Her lips pursed in amusement. “Those words seem quite advanced for a god of your passions, my love.”

Over time, it had become easier and easier to read the man before her. Their marriage, arranged as it was, had at the time felt like chains, their vows taking on the sliding clink of a lock. Now, though, watching the fixation that Hephaestus was prone to when surrounded with his brutish toys, she could not help but thank her stepmother, for she had given her exactly what she had wanted: freedom.

So preoccupied with his love of fire and metal; he had not even questioned why she had decided to find a companion in him today, content to ramble as always, the only exception being his living audience.

That was fine with her. The longer he talked, the more time she had for their sheets to be cleaned.

Ignoring her words, he continued, “They see new land and they conquer.” His hammer slammed into the glowing iron grasped in his hand. Despite the harsh pound of his tool, his voice did not waver, nor did his breath shake. “They see new weaponry and they want.” His calloused fingers tightened. “They see new women and they lust.” With ease only witnessed within the walls of his workshop, he plucked the rod from the anvil, swiftly encasing it in the cool water to his left. The hiss of steam replaced their words.

She remembers their silence, never before feeling so far away from the god before her, despite this being their first conversation in weeks.

Her gaze directed towards the rod, its once bright glow weakened with each second that passed. She had felt sore, as if its diminishing beauty had been a direct attack at her. Women flocking her temples, wishing for the everlasting grip of attractiveness. They would never get it, but she would remain forever the same, a marble bust, sculpted from hands that were not her own, yet permitted to live on long after them.

Thick fingers cradled her chin, and when their eyes met she saw that Hephaestus had removed his mask.

“They desire everything, Aphrodite.” His voice, gruff as always, was laced with longing, a feeling she knew well. He retracted his hand from her face and placed his hammer before her on the anvil. “And you, are but their tool.”

He left her alone after that. She remembers sitting there for a long time, yet the heat of his workshop no longer affected her.

The hotel room she’s been staying in always has a slight chill to it; she can’t find the means to change the temperature, and this late in her stay, she doesn’t see reason to ask about it.

After spending another thirty minutes on shoes, she heads down the hallway, black flats padding across crimson carpet.

A man in the elevator rakes his eyes over her form. She wonders what person he sees in her cell of clothing. Judging by the whistle she gets as she exits, he likes the outfit.

Heads turn as she saunters through the lobby. A husband gets scolded. A waitress drops her plates. The doorman paws at her waist as she passes.

She has not seen her husband in centuries, and she does not care to see him now. Throughout their time together he was as imbecilic in her eyes as she was vain in his, but for once she can agree with him.

Desire, indeed.