She was lighter in death, as though something had fled her. I could drag
her into the bathroom and prop her on the edge of the tub. I needed to
wash her before anyone else came up.
I cut away her dress with the sewing shears. She was wearing an elastic
girdle beneath, and an enormous brassiere, and they were too tough --
too tight -- to cut through, so I struggled with their hooks, each one
going *spung* as I unhooked it, revealing red skin beneath it, pinched
and sore-looking.
When I got to her bra, I had a moment's pause. She was a modest person
-- I'd never even seen her legs without tan compression hose, but the
smell was overwhelming, and I just held to that vision of her in a
nightie and clean sheets and, you know, *went for it*.
Popped the hooks. Felt it give way as her breasts forced it off her
back. Found myself staring at.
Two little wings.
The size of my thumbs. Bent and cramped. Broken. Folded. There, over her
shoulder blades. I touched them, and they were cold and hard as a turkey
neck I'd once found in the trash after she'd made soup with it.
#
"How did you get out?"
"With my wings?"
"Yeah. With your wings, and with no shoes, and with the old lady dead
over the tub?"
She nuzzled his neck, then bit it, then kissed it, then bit it
again. Brushed her fingers over his nipples.
"I don't know," she breathed, hot in his ear.