Especially not the one on the woman at Eve’s wedding reception. Plastered with paint and hyperreal. A mask of a mask, glacial cheekbones. I lip-read her marionette smile: what took you so long? I say, who are you? Patterns, colours make her eyes a harlequin vignette, white glowing from the inside but not with purity. She reaches out a slender hand, leans closer, a broken ballerina in a music box. She says to pretend, that she’s whoever she ought to be.What’s your name? she asks. I tell her it’s Stephanie. She says, You know, Eve wasn’t the original woman, Stephanie. She says Lilith was the first. Lilith wouldn’t submit to Adam, and as a prize was given demon’s wings. God couldn’t punish her. She burst from the Garden of Eden, fucked archangels, even though she was only made of clay. Good for her. I wouldn’t know, I say. Her laugh crackles. Of course you wouldn’t. She tilts her head, follows my gaze across the room. I realise I’m staring at Eve, the ugly duckling in reverse. Eve used to be a swan. I don’t know why I’m here. Who do you think she’s fooling, wearing white on her wedding day? the woman asks. Is she fooling you, Stephanie? The woman puts her arms around my waist. I can’t answer.