She slides along the aisle in stilettos, a sexualized wave that parts the sea of sweaty, sordid lepers like the goddess embodied in her physique. A familiar emblem bulges from her bust with a voluptuous gravity that curves with the earth, drawing everything towards her with the density of a supermassive black hole. Symbols have power, as all magicians know, and the double stacked double-you that frames her clavicle easily indoctrinates the masses. Her lips, lavish and ambrosial, stay pressed in a tight line across her cleanly shined face, which effortlessly reflects the flashes from camera phones and men. Still, she keeps on stalking, never stopping for a smile, as if on a vaguely detailed mission full of danger, sex, and spandex heroics.

A man fumbles towards her, tripping on the laces of his ill-fitting sneakers. When he finally recovers and returns to stand erect, his hands are already deep in the pockets of his oversized khaki cargos gripping for something for something hard about four inches in length. “I love your costume! She’s my favorite superhero. Can I get a picture?” he asks, spitting excitement as he whips out his iPhone and readies it in his hand, pausing eagerly as he awaits her response.

She sighs, rolls her eyes in an arc like her hips and turns to face her fan. She lets out an exasperated “Fine,” keeping her eyes glued toward the skies where such a super human form was surely born, and strikes an exhausted and uncommitted pose for the briefest moment, just enough for him to snap a single picture.

I subtly suggest that she’s not in the mood for photographs, to which he responds: “But she dressed up in a superhero costume! Of course she wants her picture taken. I mean, look at her — she’s asking for it!” He turns his attention back to fire and says, “Hey, can you do the —” but she’s already turned away, escaped into the shadows just as swiftly as she came.