that shine. She’s dressed in an evening gown—even though it’s ten-thirty in the morning. The gown hugs her curves perfectly. But to be honest, she looks a little crazy.
“Iris!” she shrieks, and grabs me in a boob-smashing hug. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet. Must mean trouble with the uncles.”
“Hi . . . um . . . Ms. Cypris,” I say when she finally releases me.
She slaps my arm playfully. “Get out of here. Call me Aunt Aphrodite! Come in, come in.”
She half drags me by the hand. I gesture toward Annie. “This is—”
“Annie . . .” Aphrodite says. “I know.”
Annie and I exchange glances. And then I get my first glimpse of the inside of Aphrodite’s apartment.
If Annie called the mural tacky, I have no idea what she would call the apartment. It is crammed—and I mean crammed—with tchotchkes. The coffee table alone has at least fifteen snow globes. I squint. They are of the Parthenon and Greek tourist attractions.
Bookshelves are filled with books on Greece, but also little statues of Greek gods and goddesses. On the walls are Greek icons in gold inlay and rich and vibrant colors that conflict with one another, dozens of icons crowding for space. I almost don’t know where to look—it’s dizzying.
Aphrodite sees Annie and me looking around at all her cluttered possessions.
“I miss Greece. What can I say? I adore my things!” She picks up a snow globe that says I LOVE ATHENS inside and shakes it. She laughs loudly—a deep, rich belly laugh that makes me almost want to laugh, too. “Snow globes! They never get old! I also love dribble glasses. And magnets.”
I glance into her kitchen. There is not a square inch on her refrigerator not covered with magnets.
She sweeps her hand toward the dining room table.In the center is a silver candelabra made of cherubs, each holding a tapered, orchid-colored candle up in its arms. Now that I look around, there’s a lot of pink and red in the apartment, from curtains to pillows. It is hideous.
“Come and sit. We have a lot to talk about, my darlings!”
Annie and I take off our coats and hang them on the backs of our chairs and then sit, and Aphrodite dances—literally—into the kitchen. She returns with plates laden with baklava and other pastries and three Cokes.
“I don’t do Diet Coke,” she says.
She plops into a chair and pops a pastry into her mouth.
I smile at her, feeling awkward. “So . . . ? You’re Aphrodite.”
She laughs again. I love her laugh. “I bet you were expecting a supermodel!” She eats another pastry and then looks at Annie. “Eat, you skinny thing. Pastries are good for the soul.”
Annie takes a bite and looks at me, green eyes wide. “Oh my God , but these are awesome. They have to be, like . . . I don’t know. Made by gods.”
Aphrodite laughs again and bangs the table withher hand. “Ha! No . . . these are made by Nico, down at the bakery on the corner. The guy is a god. You should see his body. But he’s mortal. And can he bake! What a catch!”
I pick up a pastry, a tiny Greek wedding cookie. It melts in my mouth.
Aphrodite looks at me. “You should eat to enjoy. That’s one reason I’m not a supermodel. And I’ll tell you why . . . I am the goddess of beauty , and there is nothing more unattractive than a woman who believes her beauty is only in her body. A woman who can’t eat a pastry and enjoy it. A woman who eats a pastry and mentally calculates how many miles she has to run on the treadmill to ‘earn’ that pastry. A woman who won’t belly laugh. No. I am a goddess. I have thousands of years of experience in what makes beauty. And I can tell you, American women have it wrong. At the first sign of wrinkles, women Botox their faces. Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?” She pulls back on her face and purses her lips to look like a plastic-surgery victim.
Annie smirks. “The lady next door to me has had her lips so plumped she looks
“Iris!” she shrieks, and grabs me in a boob-smashing hug. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet. Must mean trouble with the uncles.”
“Hi . . . um . . . Ms. Cypris,” I say when she finally releases me.
She slaps my arm playfully. “Get out of here. Call me Aunt Aphrodite! Come in, come in.”
She half drags me by the hand. I gesture toward Annie. “This is—”
“Annie . . .” Aphrodite says. “I know.”
Annie and I exchange glances. And then I get my first glimpse of the inside of Aphrodite’s apartment.
If Annie called the mural tacky, I have no idea what she would call the apartment. It is crammed—and I mean crammed—with tchotchkes. The coffee table alone has at least fifteen snow globes. I squint. They are of the Parthenon and Greek tourist attractions.
Bookshelves are filled with books on Greece, but also little statues of Greek gods and goddesses. On the walls are Greek icons in gold inlay and rich and vibrant colors that conflict with one another, dozens of icons crowding for space. I almost don’t know where to look—it’s dizzying.
Aphrodite sees Annie and me looking around at all her cluttered possessions.
“I miss Greece. What can I say? I adore my things!” She picks up a snow globe that says I LOVE ATHENS inside and shakes it. She laughs loudly—a deep, rich belly laugh that makes me almost want to laugh, too. “Snow globes! They never get old! I also love dribble glasses. And magnets.”
I glance into her kitchen. There is not a square inch on her refrigerator not covered with magnets.
She sweeps her hand toward the dining room table.In the center is a silver candelabra made of cherubs, each holding a tapered, orchid-colored candle up in its arms. Now that I look around, there’s a lot of pink and red in the apartment, from curtains to pillows. It is hideous.
“Come and sit. We have a lot to talk about, my darlings!”
Annie and I take off our coats and hang them on the backs of our chairs and then sit, and Aphrodite dances—literally—into the kitchen. She returns with plates laden with baklava and other pastries and three Cokes.
“I don’t do Diet Coke,” she says.
She plops into a chair and pops a pastry into her mouth.
I smile at her, feeling awkward. “So . . . ? You’re Aphrodite.”
She laughs again. I love her laugh. “I bet you were expecting a supermodel!” She eats another pastry and then looks at Annie. “Eat, you skinny thing. Pastries are good for the soul.”
Annie takes a bite and looks at me, green eyes wide. “Oh my God , but these are awesome. They have to be, like . . . I don’t know. Made by gods.”
Aphrodite laughs again and bangs the table withher hand. “Ha! No . . . these are made by Nico, down at the bakery on the corner. The guy is a god. You should see his body. But he’s mortal. And can he bake! What a catch!”
I pick up a pastry, a tiny Greek wedding cookie. It melts in my mouth.
Aphrodite looks at me. “You should eat to enjoy. That’s one reason I’m not a supermodel. And I’ll tell you why . . . I am the goddess of beauty , and there is nothing more unattractive than a woman who believes her beauty is only in her body. A woman who can’t eat a pastry and enjoy it. A woman who eats a pastry and mentally calculates how many miles she has to run on the treadmill to ‘earn’ that pastry. A woman who won’t belly laugh. No. I am a goddess. I have thousands of years of experience in what makes beauty. And I can tell you, American women have it wrong. At the first sign of wrinkles, women Botox their faces. Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?” She pulls back on her face and purses her lips to look like a plastic-surgery victim.
Annie smirks. “The lady next door to me has had her lips so plumped she looks
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