I pry apart my porcelain and plastic paramour. She lays still and silent on my slab of secrets sought.
I pull aside an obscuring sheet of modesty; an important formality between us.
I start slow, tracing dotted guidelines with a charcoal pen across miles of pristinely pressed sand. I don't know what kind of surgery she wants. My boundary-tracings are drawn in blindness. Did I see her shiver?
I turn behind me and grab my rhetoric razor.
By the time I've turned back, she is gone.
Naught but the slightly-stained sheet-- and the smell of good, common sense-- remains to remind me of her temporary return.
7:49 p.m. - 2015-03-05
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