Ultimately, physical perfection was just genetics. Perfection became standard, beauty turned banal.
* * *
The club was a horror show: missing teeth, scars, ruined eyes. I was displaying a port-wine birthmark, created over two hours.
“Jess! Check this out!” It was Kaylee, her arm around a one-legged girl. “Her name’s Hazel.”
“That’s amazing!” I examined the stump. “Great work! But how?”
Hazel hesitated. “Car accident, actually.”
“Wait, it’s real?” Kaylee took her arm away.
“At least I fit in here, right?” Hazel laughed nervously.
Kaylee and I remained frozen, the illusion shattered. Finally, sensing this, Hazel adjusted her crutch and hobbled away.