Touched, yes, seen exposed in parts, yes, but never all of her. Beneath layers of expensive fabric, her firm middle, her thighs, her breasts, would wither away over the years and her finely turned ankles would swell with age, until the current her was irretrievably gone. There would be no photograph, no one else’s memory, to preserve this version of her in time. It sickened her to even have this notion, that she did not really exist unless another person carried a lasting impression of her. The price a woman paid for her peace was oblivion, so to still crave space in another’s head felt greedy
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