I crease the bottom portion of my shirt over the top exposing the bare outside of my insides. The measured here, there, here, there scan of the doctor’s perusal digests a jigsaw of me impersonally. His eyes are blue, my mangled psyche informs me, as if somehow this matters.
In a few hours leap, this trivial detail will matter. I’ll be strapped back into my perpetual passenger position, wondering how gazing into the placid visage of men I don’t know has become my normal. I’ll ponder the untasted sweetness that looking into a man’s eyes across a dinner table might have. I’ll scoff at my naïveté, scrunched in and around these sacrosanct rituals most women I went to college with have partaken in dozens of times.
I will beg, barter and negotiate with the demoralized fanaticism of a junkie to be any number of those healthy women I used to know. But, mostly, I’ll ruminate on the twinkling glow strewn across the midnight to be again the woman I scarcely recognize in the mirror. I’ll navigate this constellation then that, looking for me.