Milk Fed

by Melissa Broder

My mother gave birth to twins: myself and fear.

I would give myself just this one day to eat everything I wanted: all the things I had deprived myself for years. The day had already been claimed by the sundae, and the only logical next step was to bury it under more food. It would be like cutting off my head because of a headache. But I was so tired of my head.

It seemed that as long as I wasn’t actually having sex with a person, I could get off to them. But once they embraced me it was over.

I examined the shapes and shades of her face, studying her. Each feature was its own inhabitable world. Her hair was the color of cream soda, or papyrus scrolls streaked with night light. Her eyebrows were the color of lions, lazy ones, dozing in sunlight or eating butter at night with their paws by lantern. Her eyes: icebergs for shipwrecking. Lashes: smoke and platinum. Her skin was the Virgin Mary, also very baby. Her nose: adorable, breathing. Upper lip: pink peony. Lower lip: rose. The teeth were trickier, but her inner mouth was easy—Valentine hearts and hell.

People in LA were always recommending things that were more about themselves than the recipient. They recommended obsessively—films, Netflix series—as though their association with a piece of media imbued them with sex appeal, intelligence, an irresistible whimsy.