Click. A cell phone camera.
Once, Ekaterina would have shrunk. She would have folded her shoulders, bent her knees, tried to become a question instead of an exclamation point. But that was before she understood the magic trick.
She needed only to exist, loudly and unapologetically, until the gasps turned into glances, and the glances turned into a simple, quiet nod of recognition.
She slipped out of the hotel’s back entrance, ducking under the awning. Milan in autumn smelled of espresso and wet cobblestones. A group of tourists spotted her. A man nudged his wife. A child pointed.
Six feet nine inches. Two hundred and six centimeters. The number was stamped on her passport, her driver’s license, and her soul.
Ekaterina continued walking toward the Arno River. She thought of her medal from the 2008 Olympics—bronze, heavy and cold. She thought of the Guinness World Record she held for the longest legs. She thought of the men on dating apps who messaged her: Can you step on me? and Do you play basketball? (Always the same two questions.)
She didn't say it’s fine , because it wasn't. But she also didn't say go away , because that would be a lie. She had learned that her body was a public monument whether she liked it or not. The only question was whether she would be a statue or a living woman.
