As a great admirer of the female form, Paul felt he had a good idea what women were supposed to look like. The proportion of leg and butt to neck and breast was supposed to form a golden ratio, but the more subtle parts of the fractal were in the curves of the ankles and wrists and nose, brachistochrones all three.
“Next,” he called. The woman in front of him, though beautiful, even strikingly so by some social standard, did not pass mathematical rigor.
“I’m sorry? I haven’t even started yet.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
He’d been at this all morning, and had started to find a pleasure in deflating the egos of these models who thought they were special. After thousands of sketches of the ideal woman, anything less was a disappointment.
“Are you casting completely on physical appearance? Is that what you’re doing? Because I thought you were looking for dancers.”
“Listen. I’m sure you’re very talented, but we have a clear idea of what we have in mind.”
The woman kneeled down to her boombox and started her track, a tango. Paul sighed, but allowed her to continue. Her routine was more rooted in ballet, but it fit the music in its own way. She simulated a partner out of air and gesture, and the two of them functioned in a necessary symmetry.
When she finished, Paul clapped for her, and she smiled, coyly. He looked her over again. Her proportions weren’t exactly phi, but better than his own, he had to admit.
As they switched consciousnesses, he felt pleased with himself that he had taken initiative, whatever she chose to do. Whatever her standards were, his were higher for himself.
“Next,” he heard behind him.
