A third sprouted overnight, like a cycloptic eye in the center of her chest. Just above the others on her sternum, the new was a milky dream that made the old seem slight and jealous. They hung, defeated, tilting away from it in opposite directions, afraid to look. In the bathroom mirror, the lone, erect nipple stared back at her—blind or accusing, she couldn’t tell.

She tried ACE bandages, which made her sore, then numb. When she let the breast roam free, she was promptly fired. The manager claimed budget cuts, but delivered a parting, whispered plea to cup it, just once, in the palm of his hand. She had no real illusions as to where the breast would lead her. Kink is democratic, in its way. On stage, she wore a custom shrug of ostrich plumes, the single, tasseled nipple her final reveal. Spinning it before the men, she saw the power of unformed fantasy in their eyes—here was something for which they hadn't even known to ask. Once home, they’d beg their wives to hold oranges or balled socks to their chests, to strap on a prosthetic, just so. In her own narrow bed, before sleep, she’d feel their desires gathering in the moonlit mound of her flesh, like so many whispered prayers.