Em stands in front of Aphrodite on her marble pedestal, the air cool and hollow. Here, in this place, Aphrodite is named Venus, but Em prefers Aphrodite, the name the sculptor gave her.

The crowd in the room ebbs and flows around her, snapping photos, an instant captured, a sight seen. Em stands through wave after wave. Three times she is nearly alone with Aphrodite. Smooth and white, confidently missing her arms, one at the shoulder, one mid-bicep. When Aphrodite was found, her white marble arm was found nearby, holding an apple.

Eve, too, held an apple. Em has seen Eve many times in many places: Frankfurt, Grand Rapids, New York. Eve stands cowering, arms covering her breasts, hands gripping herself as if to fold into her warm bronze center. Her left leg is bent at the knee in protection, or maybe, deflection. The apple for Rodin’s Eve is forgotten, rolled away, rotten. Who needs a symbol with a posture exuding transgression?

Aphrodite’s left leg is bent at the knee, sensuously, her hip emerging from the robe pooling around her waist. Where is her arm with the apple? Why is it not displayed in a glass coffin nearby? Aphrodite stands tall, despite being broken; sumptuous, despite age.

Eve is younger, sculpturally speaking. Mother of the entire human race, yet her sin and shame were manufactured decades after Aphrodite was reborn as Venus de Milo. Eve aches with emotion and regret.

Em grew up in the shadow of Eve. Today, in the Louvre, she basks in the light of Aphrodite. She cannot break her gaze with this moment. She walks backward down the halls of sculpted women, straightening her spine, rolling back her shoulders. She narrows her eyes. No one will sever Em’s new arms.