In the hours between late and dawn, I stroked Ray lazily. Neither of us was feeling much of anything, what with my rebuilt hand full of fresh scars and screws and his newly-built penis created from a strip of thigh and some other spare parts. It was just as well, a metaphor maybe for how little we felt on the inside, both of us numb from the things that broke us. Both of us awake because we couldn't bear to sleep.
He was my only remaining client; I'd stopped turning tricks. Again. But I couldn't give him up. And he wouldn't stop paying me. We couldn't go back to normal. Maybe I'd never known it—or couldn't remember it—but I'd gotten close enough to see it through the glass. To normal, we were both repulsive, some reminder of what could be. I joked that at least he got a few thanks along with the stares, but that wasn't him, wasn't what he wanted.