Carrie Addington
Anesthesia I was completely aware. Was entirely aware. I was— and I mean all of me—aware of what was happening. The smells of latex, powder, a distant waif of cologne. The sound of cloth slippers sliding on linoleum, the low purr of breathing and yet, silence. I stared at the man prepping me— his dimpled pout—realized he’d soon see the modest size of my breasts, and I began thinking
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of ways to make myself bigger. He muddied my chest with iodine, making small circles chase their borders into larger circles. My nose puckered to the smell of the smears and I thought of rusting, corrosion, and the strongest hues of brown. I locked his eyes and the silence fell out of our mouths.
MOUNT HOPE