A strip of light fell over a face I now saw was stretched tight from a billion surgeries. Her lips were plump with filler. Hair held in a loose bun the color of gold, fried into a delicate, brittle state. Her skin was a shade of varnished wood—perhaps beech? Looking at the balls of sweat that formed and rolled down her chest, I worried her tanning job would run and spoil the perfectly white rug I rubbed my toes into. I still value life, I said. Even if it ain’t always worth living. The struggle is what keeps me alive.

It sounds like you enjoy your poverty, she said, folding her arms into her chest. She was, despite or because of Dr. Whozit’s work, gorgeous—but I liked women in extremes.

Money talks, wealth whispers.

Shouldn’t that make you silent? 

What?

She sighed, dropping her arms to her sides. I want you to shoot me, she said, taking a step closer, slinging forward the scent of vanilla cupcakes fresh out of the oven. Her mouth was swimming in sweet gloss. Her cheeks coated with powders. Beneath it all, of course, I could see age and its cracks. We all had those. Not even Dr. Whozit could fully erase life’s faint fissures. That’s all, she said. You aim it into my chest, bang. Then we’re done. You walk away with $500.

Then: You won’t miss, she said.

But what if I do?

Coming Soon to New Pop Lit!