Galatea

by Madeline Miller

“I’m always this color,” I said. “Because I used to be made of stone.”

But I say this so that you understand what I was up against: that I was worth more to her sick than I was well.

The door closed, and the room swelled around me like a bruise. When she was here, I could pretend it felt small because of her, but when she left the four wood walls seemed to press towards me, like lungs that had breathed in.

Everyone looked at me, because I was the most beautiful woman in the town. I don’t say this to boast, because there is nothing in it to boast of. It was nothing I did myself.

“The color is perfect,” he said, “look.” And he held up the mirror so I could see. “You make the rarest canvas, love.”