HIS FOR THE TAKING

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.

"Another evening at Athena's Family Diner," Ava sighed, descending the stairwell. Her wooden shoe echoeing against the linoleum steps. Despite the chores awaiting her, a serene smile traced it’s way up her lips as she thought of her self-portrait. Tonight was just another grind, but maybe her big break was near.

Ava burst through the service entrance of Athena's Family Diner, her chestnut locks already frizzing from the muggy summer night air. She scanned the cramped back hallway with frantic emerald eyes, praying Len, the ornery manager, wouldn't be skulking nearby.

Of course, the Greek bastard seemed to materialize out of nowhere, his squat, pot-bellied frame blocking the doorway leading to the main dining room. Len's bushy caterpillar eyebrows furrowed as he crossed his meaty arms over his sweat-stained white undershirt. "You're late, Princess," he growled in his thick Brooklyn accent.

"Len, I'm so sorry! I completely lost track of..." Ava began babbling her excuses in a breathless rush, but the stocky little man's scowl only deepened.

"Save your fairytales for the children's menu," he cut her off with a dismissive wave. "I don't give a crap about your fingerpainting hobby. You clock in 10 minutes past start time again, and your scrawny ass is out that door, capisce?"

Ava's chest tightened as she imagined losing this dead-end job. As much as she loathed having to sling cheap diner slop to ungrateful savages, it was her only tether to survival. Having no family, no partner, no safety net in this cold city, the thought of destitution sent a shudder down her spine.

"Please, Len...it won't happen again. I swear!" she pleaded, unconsciously sticking out her lower lip in a petulant pout that made her look younger than her 25 years. "I need this job. You know I'm one of the few good servers you've got in this shi...fter."

She just barely caught herself before the expletive slipped out. Ava knew better than to further test the volcanic temper of the miserly old man who looked at his diner staff as a slothed crossed between indentured servants and leprous beggars.

Len's leathery face remained stoic as he pushed past Ava, letting his wide frame brush against hers perhaps a little too closely. "Then get your sweet ass out on the floor before I give you another reason to cry those baby blues out," he grumbled over his shoulder.

Ava waited until he waddled off before releasing the anxious breath she'd been holding. As she hurried to the time clock, she muttered under her breath, "Prick. You're lucky my art supplies cost more than your whole roach-infested sh*thole..."

Was that a reprieve or a warning shot? Ava tried not to dwell on it as she hastily tied her apron around her narrow waist and made her way into the bustling dining room. Plastering on her warmest smile, she grabbed her first order pad, ready to begin another evening sacrificing her dreams to the diner's demanding devotees.

***