“It’s not that I don’t feel some attraction to you,” says Ostrom, a bit embarrassed.

The supermodels stalk in circles around him, their movements stylized and fluid.

“There’s just something… desperate about your biology,” he says. “A stunted evolutionary branch? You adapted into a shrinking niche, and as standards of beauty–like all media standards–started to decentralize, you just didn’t have the chance to hit reverse.”

They slit their eyes.

“And that’s the attraction,” sighs Ostrom. “The poetry, the tragedy of your obsolescence.”

The supermodels give a keening cry and leap, rending him with their enlarged, sickle-shaped second toes.