She’s scrubbed. Her hair, her face, her teeth, the skin all over her body, much of which I can see around her denim shorts jumpsuit.

Her hair, brown, up, in a chignon, ends in blonde tips, tucked into the ball atop her head.

Her cheekbones are high, and her teeth, perfectly straight, glisten.

In her ears are tiny gold bars, a half-millimeter wide and a centimeter long. (They’re metric.)

On her neck hangs a thin gold chain, and on the chain hangs a gold “V.” The”V,” too, is half a millimeter wide, and about a centimeter long.

Her waist is narrow. Her hips flare.

I e-mailed V about this, concluding, “Tragically, she is neither you nor not with her mother.”

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