Simon Vouet. The Toilet of Venus. c. 1640.

“Oh, God,” wailed Venus, rocking back and forth on her chaise lounge, clutching her aching gut. “Why do I always do this to myself? Why do I always eat until regret?”

“There, there.” Her sympathetic friend, Midge, put her comforting arms around her. “It’s all right, don’t blame yourself.”

“Right, it’s not your fault you never could resist the Taco Tuesday buffet,” said Stacy, her much less sympathetic friend, with a roll of her eyes. They went through this nonsense every week: Venus ate everything in sight on girls’ night out, then the evening was cut short as they all raced back to Venus’s place so she could keep her toilet company for the rest of the night.

“My gallstones, my gallstones!” Venus curled into a fetal position and whimpered. “Why can’t I ever show restraint? Why can’t I just eat a big carrot for dinner instead of ten tortillas stuffed with beef and refried beans? God, I'm just the grossest!”

“You stop that!” Midge took her by the arms and gave her a loving throttle. “You’re beautiful, inside and out, no matter what you eat.”

“But we can hit The Salad Bar next time,” Stacy offered. “I have their menu right here. They have twenty different types of tomatoes.”

“Oh, Midge.” Venus ignored the horrible things Stacy was suggesting and smiled at her kinder friend. “You’re the best. Let’s get a selfie to commemorate this night.”

Stacy couldn’t fathom what they could possibly be commemorating, but still Venus affixed her gold iPad on her cherub-shaped tripod and the three gathered in the frame in various stages of reluctance.

“Say cheese!” Venus commanded through a smile.

“Cheese,” said the other two, and that’s when Venus cut it.

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