The Hall of Famer

The steam on the bathroom mirror was starting to recede, retreating from the edges of the glass to reveal Nia in fragments. First a shoulder, golden and glistening from the humidity; then the curve of a hip; and finally, a pair of dark, expectant eyes.

It had been exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since she’d spent a Valentine’s Day alone—or rather, miserably attached to a dying flame that had flickered out long before the official end. That night had been spent in sweatpants with a pint of ice cream and a heavy heart. But tonight was different. Tonight marked two months with Ford, and for the first time in a year, the butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach weren't born of anxiety or dread; they were made of pure, unadulterated anticipation.

She swiped a hand across the glass, clearing a foggy portal to inspect the damage, or rather, the masterpiece she was about to present.

At 5'2", Nia didn’t take up much vertical space. In a crowd, she could easily be overlooked if one were only scanning the horizon. But she made up for her lack of height in sheer density and curvature. She was a condensed storm, packing more shape into sixty-two inches than most women did in six feet. She turned to the side, checking her profile with a critical but appreciative eye. It was a view she had learned to love again over the last year of singlehood, reclaiming it from the insecurities of the past. Her silhouette was a dramatic series of peaks and valleys—a waist that dipped in sharply, almost violently, before flaring out into hips that were unapologetically wide.

She reached for the bottle of cocoa butter on the counter, the pump hissing as it dispensed a generous dollop into her palm. Her skin, a warm, rich bronze that seemed to hold and amplify the bathroom's golden vanity lighting, was thirsty after the hot shower. As she worked the lotion into her arms, the scent of chocolate and vanilla filling the small room, she watched her muscles flex gently. They were soft, buried under a layer of feminine plushness, but capable.

Her hands moved down to her stomach, the lotion making her skin slick and radiant. Her midsection was the epitome of feminine softness. She wasn't built like a fitness model with rigid, washboard abs; she was built like a woman designed to be held. Her stomach was smooth and inviting, a gentle, taut mound that rose and fell with her breath. Her fingers traced the dip of her navel before sliding over the dramatic flare of her hips, feeling the bone structure underneath the softness.

This was the main event. The "thunder," as she jokingly called it.

Her thighs were shapely, powerful pillars that brushed together when she walked. They were lush and smooth with soft flesh, demanding space and attention. She loved the way they felt under her hands, solid and grounding. She turned fully away from the mirror, craning her neck to see the back view, checking the angles. Her posterior was high and heart-shaped, a gravity-defying shelf that sat proud at the top of her legs. It was a projection that seemed almost architectural, the kind of curve that made buying jeans a nightmare of waist-gaping disasters, but made wearing a dress a weapon of mass distraction.

"Okay, Nia. Pull it together," she whispered to her reflection, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls. She shook out her hair, feeling the weight of it settle around her neck.

Her hair was a halo of dark, textured curls that she’d spent the last hour meticulously defining with gel and prayer. They fell just past her shoulders, dark coils that framed a face which looked younger than her years thanks to full, round cheeks that dimpled when she smirked. She leaned in close to the mirror, applying a coat of deep red lipstick, the color of crushed velvet. It accentuated the natural fullness of her mouth, making her lips look plush and inviting. She finished by darkening her eyes with mascara, layering it on until her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks and her gaze looked smoky and dangerous.

Satisfied, she walked back into the bedroom where her dress was laid out on the bed like a crimson promise. It was a slip dress, silk and red, clinging to the Valentine’s theme without being cheesy. It was simple, but on her body, simple was never just simple.

Stepping into it was a process, a negotiation between fabric and flesh. The cold silk shimmied over her calves, caught briefly on the shapeliness of her thighs—a momentary struggle that always made her smile—and then slid up over her hips like water finding its level. She reached back to adjust the straps, the fabric settling into the deep arch of her lower back (her lordosis doing its heavy lifting), pooling slightly above her glutes before draping down. The dress didn't just hang on her; it clung to the shelf of her rear and hugged her waist, showcasing the dramatic ratio she worked so hard to maintain.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, slipping on her black stiletto heels. The added height did wonders for her posture, forcing her back to arch slightly more, thrusting her chest forward and her backside out. The transformation was complete. She didn't look like just a date; she looked like an experience. She looked like a statuette carved from brown sugar and trouble, glistening under the bedroom lights.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the silence.

Ford: Just got seated. This place is incredible. Are you on your way?

Nia took one last look, cataloging every curve, every highlight on her skin, every curl in place. She didn't look like the heartbroken girl from a year ago who was afraid to take up space. She looked lush. She looked expensive. She looked like a goddess who knew exactly what she was bringing to the table, and she knew Ford wasn't ready for it.

She grabbed her purse, typed back a quick confirmation, then caught her own eye in the mirror and gave a slow, deliberate wink. "Ready."