November 2020. I’m forty-one and my daughter is thirteen months. When breastfeeding, I feel my breasts to see which has more milk. Grab my boobs like udders. Check my supplies. On the underside of my left breast, about six o’clock as the doctors and technicians would eventually refer to the location, I find a lump. I’d heard about the infamous lump women are supposed to check for in showers and self-exams.
Imagine a world in which removing your lover’s eye is normal.
You don’t come from this world, but at a house party in New Jersey, in an apartment across the street from an A & P, you meet someone who does. You’re sitting on someone’s bed, half-drunk and navigating a potential threesome, when they walk in, sunglasses on indoors at 11pm, holding a bottle of beer in a way that judges you.