There had been vases of peacock feathers in the corners of her bedroom, but the night after Kite left her Hera knocked them down and ripped them to pieces, because what good was beauty to her anymore? She should have known better.
(My goddess, he said, and tailed the tip of a feather down her breast. My one, my only, my Muse, my beautiful one.)
There were no red lines down her wrists, as there had been amoung her more melodramatic acquantinces when their puffed-up muscular tennis stars found someone even bustier and more empty-headed. She had more pride that that, at least.
(No needle tracks on his arms; the drug was not injected, left no evidence. But his hands shook so hard he could no longer hold a paintbrush.)
There would be no tears, and she would pick up the pieces and move on, and she would keep her heart in a marble casket where it would not blossom again. She would do what she had to do.
(His eyes were almost as dead as hers, as they saw Aphrodite’s illusions, not the real woman who was Hera, and who was watching herself dissolve into dust at his side.)
