The Perfect Woman

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Lee Ann Moffit sprawled across the slick leather couch with a brown stain on the middle cushion and let her head slip onto the guy’s broad shoulder. Why not? It was a clean house, and he’d been nice to her all evening. He bought her a fried shrimp dinner at Popeye’s (the big shrimp dinner, not the snack meal), gave her a couple of Vicodin to keep her sane, and now he sat quietly with her as she drank a Rolling Rock and watched some cheap rip-off of America’s Next Top Model. It had been awhile since she was someplace she could watch TV this time of night, especially a show like this. One of the few fantasies she still held was being a supermodel on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Everyone at Sandalwood High had told her she was pretty enough to model. She was convinced of it too until she scraped together three hundred bucks for a “photo-shoot.” She believed the tubby, bald photographer when he said she could be a star. It wasn’t until she found out what kind of star he meant that her dreams came crashing down.

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