My physical appearance is above reproach. I have strong, healthy bones, including a skull that would make a witch doctor jealous. My vertebrae are aligned like marines on graduation day. My femurs are long and robust. They'll make great clubs someday when the only weapons left with which to kill each other are the thighs of dead tall people.

I've been told my fingernails are very wide. This was told to me by a person whose fingernails were very narrow. I do not remember if it was a man or a woman. He or she was completely wrong; my fingernails are the definition of.

Hair does not grow on the backs of my hands. The skin between my knuckles and my wrist is as smooth and barren as a sand dune. There are a few persistent follicles on my fingers but these are only visible under certain lighting conditions, none of which I care to divulge. The moles on my forearms are exact replicas of ancient constellations, celestial bodies used by those seeking God or spices. My elbows are moist. My shoulders are wide and muscular. When I stand up straight and am relaxed there is a pocket of air between my shoulder blades. This is the calmest pillow of air in the world. Calmer than a dying balloon.

Beartrap designers have studied my back and ass for the same reasons I model for the vase industry. Words like form and function are bandied about but I do not pay attention. Cameras flash. Lasers measure. The ruler freaks and plaster casters flit about like hummingbirds while I munch on grapes and pumpkin seeds and cherry tomatoes. Whole pineapples are often made available. Does no one realize that even I prefer my pineapples carved?

Benevolence restrains me.

Fine suits were invented for lines like mine. My eyes are as precise as scissors and bluer than memories of the ocean. My chin is an atmospheric carving knife, shedding plasma like the underside of the Shuttle.

My tears, when they do, flow with the sadness of a melting glacier.

I have small feet, to confuse my enemies.

When I run I am a leaf in the wind, a ghost on reflective shoes passing brick walls and doorways and parking meters. Mailboxes salute. When I dance I am the pen of Mozart. When I swing I am Ruth. When I yawn indoors the fire dies, just for a moment. I nap like a full lion. When I enter a room people stare. When I leave a room people mutter.

Reality is my canvas. Living is my art. Don't ask for a price. You can't afford me.

Women of taste and value want me. They want me for the joys I am happy to share and the secrets they will never learn.

I have a mind I cannot turn off.

It is full of truths and lies.

It is never calm, except when it is.