Looking For Love On An Operating Table
By Kim kjagain Moes
Atalanta exits the tavern, her shoulders slumped, lips trembling. She'd sat right up at the bar, practically begging for someone to connect with. Only Lucan, the bartender, glanced her way, an old childhood friend. Probably oozing with pity for this lame, unlovable girl. Atalanta's reflection in the moonlit pond troubles her—a face too ordinary, curves too soft, limbs too weak. How will I ever attract a mate looking like this? Atalanta yearns for a transformation, believing beauty holds the key to unlock love's door.
She had heard the stories about the elusive Shape-Weaver; a mystical creature living in a secret cave just beyond the outskirts of their village. Seeing no other choice, she sets out to find him. Her quest takes her about ten minutes. The cave entrance is three hundred yards outside the village. So much for elusive.
Fortified with hope for a metamorphosis, her shoulders high, chest forward, she demands, "Change me."
"Hi. My name is Lorthew," The Shape-Weaver replies. "Nice to meet you."
"Make me worthy of love." She crosses her arms and tilts her head in her best I-have-no-time-for-small-talk pose.
The creature's laugh echoes off the walls. "Aw dreamer," it coddles her. "You seek love like a moth seeks moonlight. But love is not a shape. It is the dance of fireflies, the rustle of leaves, the dew on morning grass."
"I don't care." Atalanta stomps her foot. "I want to be beautiful, like the maidens on Cosmo-Medieval."
"Very well then. Hop up onto my operating table." The Shape-Weaver whistles as he applies his magic eraser to different parts of her body.
Atalanta's body grows lighter, shedding its burdens. All of what she perceived as ugly melts away. Memories attached to those ugly parts dance momentarily in her head before fading away, too: Lucan smiling as he helps carry her too-heavy firewood at summer camp in the old grove, the way Atalanta's legs get goose-pimply when the woods whisper to her, and soft squishy embraces with her now deceased grandmother.
Atalanta's new skin shimmers, her limbs as smooth and strong as arbutus branches, her curves as hard as burnt clay.
"Get up Atalanta."
Atalanta jumps off the table. Startled by her new lightness, she almost leaps as high as the ceiling causing her to giggle at herself. “Thank you Lorthew. So much!” She races back to the village, hoping to come across some gallant hero who might finally give her some attention.
Excitement fills her as she steps into the lively tavern, the cheerful chatter and clinking glasses enveloping her in a warm embrace of belonging. But before long, frustration boils in her gut as she weaves through the oblivious crowd. Her sharp words and piercing glares fail to grab anyone's attention. Atalanta tries talking to Lucan, but his gaze slides through her. Atalanta heads back to Lorthew's cave, her feet dragging—bogged down by her heavy heart and fresh tears.
"Why didn't it work?" She asks him.
"I gave you what you asked for. A mask. Those Cosmo-Medieval maidens are significantly more beautiful beneath their made-up exteriors in magazines. Their airbrushed features hide their genuine beauty." Atalanta looks at Lorthew, eyebrows raised in question marks. The Shape-Weaver continues, "And the mask I gave you hides your beauty, too, making you invisible to others."
"I'm sorry about how I acted earlier. Desperation consumes me as I yearn to embody beauty, to feel weightless and unburdened. Can I not become worthy of love?"
"What makes you believe you are unworthy of love, Atalanta? A picture in a magazine? Let me try this differently."
Atalanta hops back onto the operating table. A few slices here, a few erasures there. Although she doesn't experience the same lightness as before, she recognizes a shift in something.
"Get up, Atalanta."
She thanks Lorthew and heads back to the village. At the tavern, she lacks desire for attention. Rather than taking pleasure in the freedom of not needing validation from others, she experiences a sense of emptiness. Lucan attempts a conversation.
"You look different somehow, sad maybe? Are you okay?"
"I suppose." Atalanta counts the steins on the shelf behind Lucan. Their conversation continues for a few drinks, but she wakes up on the operating table in Lorthew's cave.
"How did I get here?"
"Do you still think you are unworthy of love?" Lorthew asks.
She cannot recollect the entire previous evening at the bar and shrugs. "Not really, but at least I no longer seem to care."
Lorthew hands her a mirror made of black obsidian. "Look in here."
In the mirror, Atalanta sees her former self and rolls her eyes. Another voice catches her by surprise. Lucan. He takes a spot beside her on the operating table.
"It broke my heart to witness your emptiness, Atalanta. After you shared your quest with me, I reached out to the Shape-Weaver." Lorthew clears his throat in the background. "Excuse me, I mean Lorthew. I begged him to return you to your original self. Please borrow my eyes to see your reflection. Look again."
Atalanta watches the image in the obsidian soften as Lucan continues talking.
"When you look at yourself, you see one millionth of a fraction of that moment. Beauty is not a shape to be worn, it is the wind that carries the seeds. I see you when you hug your grandmother, when you dance with fireflies, when you hear laughter echo in the hollows. That is the real you."
Atalanta's eyes lift from the black glass, a light flickering within them as they meet Lucan’s. A spark of hope peeks out from behind her heart. She scoots closer to him on the table, and extends her arms for a hug. When he accepts, her arms wrap around him, filled with a fresh burst of strength and vitality.
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Kim kjagain Moes loves dandelions, exploring fresh places, and laughing at herself. Her work can be found online and in print, most recently in Bright Flash Literary Review. @kjagain on almost all social media. On writing, she says, “Write the life we live, explore the lessons not yet learned, and then, eat catharsis for dinner.”
