Through her watery vision she saw that the tears she’d shed on the back of her hand no longer resembled tears at all. They were almost silvery, and bursting, as she watched, into tiny spheres of luminescence. It might have come from a story in Mimi’s book: a woman who wept living tears. Except that this was no faery tale. The vision was somehow more real than the concrete walls that imprisoned her; more real even than the pain that had brought these tears to her eyes. It was the menstruum she was weeping.
