by Chris Biles

She has a scar down her left breast, with a slight curve as it wraps around the still ample bosom. What cut through such tender tissue? What disturbed the blue spider-web veins beneath that white, translucent skin? What made that mark, as delicate and gentle as the lips of Grandmother’s porcelain teacups? What forcibly transformed that cool blue below diaphanous white to the reddest of red, irate, oozing, dripping? I asked her if she had cancer. All she said was “no.” And then she broke eye contact to focus those dark brown hollows on the glass cabinet looming in the corner that housed Grandmother’s best china.

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