Christine Stoddard

I tapped the razor on the side of the sink and inspected my smooth legs for any missed spots. Then I rinsed the blade, washed my hands, and put on my outfit: a long-sleeved black top, a knee-length denim skirt, tall black boots, and a silver dragon necklace for good measure.

In art school, conversations about the merits of polyamory thrived, but hearing anyone express a genuine desire to get married almost never happened. It was almost taboo. The implication was, how could you want something so traditional? So suburban and unimaginative?

I was shivering and sweating. What if the procedure didn't work? What if I had serious complications? What if I had to come back?

The moon sauntered out from a curtain of clouds, whispering, “All things must end.”