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Show Woodworth/142 of not being able to stop. From the minute she gets up, she can begin that long drift out to sea, away from the sharp jabs of this bed, this room, this house. Even this whole town. But it's not so bad. She strokes her stomach. No scars. Her room-mate from college had four children, all Caesarian. That's what children do. Leave scars. Betty's scar ran from her naval into her pubic hair. They opened it, and re-opened it. Always the same place. "One more, and I would have asked them to put in a zipper," Better would joke. "But at least I have a good excuse to stay with one-piece bathing suits." One piece bathing suits. Her scars are all over, all over inside. She would have to dress in a habit and surgical mask. Damn this humidity, it happens every year like this, for at least a week, it's impossible to breath, improbable to sleep. Everything sweats - even the furniture and the walls. The moisture on her neck rolls off her shoulders in to the pillow. It's not like she never knew where babies come' from. You put that there, and you get this. Simple. Like baking a cake. Even easier. But until Ned, she had never seen a naked male. At first, it was bad. She opens her eyes, stares up at the ceiling. He would work all night, or until way after she was asleep. She could feel it when he settled into the bed, how tired he was. She would turn to him, and massage his neck and shoulders until his breath came raspy and deep, and he began to snore. It never bothered her when he snored. There was something comforting about it, like she had given him a gift, the comfort and relaxation he needed to sleep. But then morning would come, and she would feel ugly, stale and dry. And he would want it. Would kiss her, even though her breath was bad, and look at her body in the day light that glared gi,-! nvfT» -fthp ™™n. She would watch the ceiling - |