Taking Whats His

The candlelight flickered, creating dancing shadows on the canvas, distorting the nude female form Ava Sinclair had meticulously painted. Sitting back, she felt the ache in her lower back from hours of work, reminding her of her earthly presence.

Lost in her art, Ava felt transformed - like a deity breathing life into her creation with every brushstroke. Her self-portrait revealed her delicate features frozen in a mix of ecstasy and defiance as she admired her work. This daring piece displayed her vulnerability with its unabashed depiction of her skin and curves.

A part of Ava hesitated at exposing herself so openly to the viewer's gaze. Her upbringing had drilled into her the importance of innocence and modesty above all else. The echoes of those voices lingered in her mind, urging her to cover up...

However, another part of her found a sense of liberation in baring herself through art - reclaiming her body as something beautiful and worthy of study rather than shame. Each nude self-portrait she created helped shed layers of societal guilt engrained within her. Through her art, she transcended moral boundaries, elevating the human form into something sublime.

As she put the finishing touches on her piece, Ava felt a surge of clarity wash over her like a wave. This painting was different - it was her masterpiece, signaling her liberation from life in obscurity as an unknown, struggling artist.

Ava jolted from her trance when the phone's alarm disrupted the moment. Muttering a curse, she silenced the device, almost spilling her cold coffee. The 25-year-old artist's thoughts snapped back, returning to her reality as she checked the time.

"Shit, Shit, I'm going to be so late…" Ava leapt from her makeshift couch, hastily tying her chestnut hair into a messy bun. She discarded her tattered oversized shirt and crossed the small studio apartment, chest bare, retrieving her waitress uniform from a heap on the floor.

"Ugh, I really need to get this gross friggin' smell out..." Ava muttered in disgust as she pulled the black polyester polo over her slim frame. No matter how much detergent she used, the

uniform always reeked of a sour marriage between stale beer and diner grease baked over decades into the fabric.

As she bops into the scratchy black pants, Ava's gaze landed on the masterpiece self-portrait still shining with wet oils in the candlelight. She couldn't resist a sly smirk at how thoroughly she had captured the sensual contours of her nude form, boldly exposed without a shred of prudish shame.

"Well, aren't you just a proper Aphrodite tonight, Miss Thang?" Ava chuckled as she addressed the subject of the portrait with a saucy wink. Her attention quickly shot back to the clock as she realized she had dallied too long in admiring herself. "Sh*t shit sh*t!"

Hopping frantically on one foot, Ava jammed her second shoe on as she snatched up her decrepit yellow waitress apron and beaten messenger bag serving as her purse. With a deep breath to brace herself, the artist-turned-server flung open her apartment door, the potent smell of curry and body odor from the hallway nearly knocking her backward.