Popularity is temporary. That’s what people had told Greta in her teens. That she wouldn’t have the looks, the smile, the friends she had in school forever.
Of course, Greta never believed them. Why would she? Her friends liked her for more than her looks and a convenient lunch buddy. They loved her. No one could say they didn’t. Not after everything they’d done for her.
Her friendships were forever, and she had a lot of them. She made a point of collecting friends and cementing the relationships with strict determination. As for her appearance? It was manageable and age didn’t have to be the end of smiling.
All in all, Greta felt her life would never change. It would remain immortalised and perfect. The clothes might change, along with the lunch menu. She might get a job at some point just to feel that sense of accomplishment and progress. Her hair, as well. Her hair could do with updating. It had been a few decades since she’d really changed it, and she had missed some interesting styles this century.
Greta supposed this whole eternal popularity thing was a lot easier when you had eternal life and beauty to boot.
Spitfire Words 