I never liked these kinds of events. The galleries, the champagne, the critics standing around like their opinions were gospel. The walls were lined with oil-soaked fantasies and overpriced self-indulgence. But I had no other choice. If I wanted to be known in the art world, I had to mingle.
I sipped from the glass in my hand and tried not to fidget. My heels were killing me, and I was too aware of the way my body took up space. Too aware of how my curves made me stand out even more.
Every time I walked into a room like this, I felt the same thing, like I had to shrink myself. Like I was responsible for how other people reacted to my size. Like my curves were something I needed to tuck away and make more palatable. The thin women floated through the room in their minimalist black dresses
