She stands and pulls off her shirt over her head, quickly but careful to not mess up her hair. Where breasts had once been, there are two long, sloping cuts. Cuts not scars. Unhealed, unbleeding cuts sutured shut with stitches like the lashes of closed eyes. It flashes through me that the eyes will open and she will look at me from the flat face of her body. I will meet that stare or I will look away. I will drop to my knees. I will cease to exist.
