flashes, your hair thins, your skin thins, your bones thin. And yet, your middle gets fat.”
I groaned and laid my face in my hands.
“There are little compensations, though,” Cyrene said. “I used to wear a getup like yours in my youth when I traveled with a band of mercenaries. I can’t say I miss freezing my tits off—or having to starve myself to keep the padding off my exposed midriff. And don’t get me started about going into combat in high-heeled boots. I still have corns.”
“But what about . . . men?” I asked. “Who’s going to look twice at a frumpy, dumpy, middle-aged hag?” I flushed. “No offense.”
Cyrene waved away my insult and tsked. “What do you want a man for? They’re so high-maintenance—only concerned with their own needs, acting like taking out the trash makes them even with you for doing the cooking, cleaning, and laundry. It seems to me you have a perfectly fine cat. You’re better off with him.”
Saber purred and rubbed against Cyrene’s leg. She scratched behind his ears.
“But what will I do now?” I asked. “I’ve always relied on my breasts to give me an edge.”
“Life is like a book,” Cyrene said. “It’s time to start a new chapter. Think of it as an adventure.”
“And that’ll make me feel better about getting older?” I asked.
Smack! “No! But you can’t wallow in self-pity. At your age, no one will put up with your moods the way they did when you were young and beautiful.”
I sighed. “You’re right. I need to start anew, maybe open a shop. But what should I sell?”
“You could sell my youth potion,” Cyrene said, her blue eyes glittering. “I’ve been thinking about franchising.”
“But you said it didn’t work.”
“It moisturizes the skin, which reduces the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles,” Cyrene said. “If we stick to that claim, those rich biddies will expand on that in their own minds.”
I perked up. “I could also get other women to sell it and give me a percentage. In turn, I would give you a percentage.”
“Ooh, I like that.” Cyrene nodded thoughtfully. “We could create a competition—whoever sells the most gets a prize. I bet I could get Princess Tarien to give a new carriage to the winner.”
“It should be pink,” I said, “so everyone will know it’s owned by one of our representatives.”
“Brilliant.”
Saber purred in agreement.
“And maybe one day,” I said, feeling hopeful again, “someone will come up with a potion that works—”
Smack. “Stop it!”
I sighed. “I guess you’re right.”
But it could happen. Couldn’t it?
Roll Model
by Esther Friesner
“Who does a man have to turn into a frog before he gets a loaf of raisin bread around here?” The cloaked, gray-bearded figure strode through the doorway of the Happy Yum-Yum Fun-Time Bakery and dropped the bulky sack he was carrying. It made a dreadful clank and clatter. A trickle of deep purple liquid seeped through the burlap, staining the oak boards and sending up numerous threads of azure steam.
“Pick that up!” From a round table near the bakeshop counter, five women scowled condemnation at the man who had dumped his unknown burden willy-nilly, heedless of the harm it was wreaking. A sixth, waiting on the five with a teacup-and-pastry-laden tray in hand, looked pained by their outburst.
“Please don’t get upset, ladies,” the waitwench said, a slight tremor in her voice. “I can scrub that.” She was a lovely creature with a piquant face made utterly stunning by large, long-lashed, golden-brown eyes and a mouth that imperiously demanded its lawful tribute in kisses.
“Hush, Tazadei,” one of the five seated women snapped. “It doesn’t matter if you can do such a chore when you shouldn’t have to.”
“It’s not like I’ve got much else to do,” Tazadei replied. Thick cascades of wavy auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders, mocking the headcloth that tried and failed to confine those wayward locks.
“Tell me about it,” another of the women grumbled.
“You’ve already done plenty, Tazadei,” a third at the table said in the chilliest of tones. “Again.” She appeared to be considerably plumper than the others, though it was difficult to discern much about the figures of any of the women present. They were all clothed from neck to ankles in shapeless dresses that made them look like bales of fabric awaiting the tailor’s attention.
Tazadei was the sole exception. Like the seated women, she wore an all-too-ample dress—beige fustian, in her case—but at the moment, she was also clad for work in an apron that revealed her slim, embraceable waistline.