And that tuft of hair on her mound of Venus that surrounded her lips and teased itself into a perfect curl with the perfect color. She was my ideal.

Then I saw my body, scarred — from the cesarean, fat, lined, wrinkled. It was mine. I heard a woman in the background say, Roberta’s breasts are too large. And it’s just not pretty.

You see, the people in my dreams talk, and they are not always kind.