She squinted in a half-unconvinced manner at the surgeon, and as she listened to him describe the state of K’s mangled and tortured but still breathing body she became more and more unconvinced. She knew K’s body better than anybody (a bold claim but a true one nonetheless); she worshiped it like an idol still, after all these years, and whoever the surgeon was describing wasn’t K. Couldn’t be K.
But where was K? He didn’t come home last night. And then the phone call this morning from the hospital asking her to come immediately.
She had just assumed. But now…
The surgeon, face creased with detached concern, excused himself and she slumped back in her chair to flip through the imaginary Rolodex of male bodies she had accumulated during her “reckless years.” Countless bodies, but each distinct in its own way, even memorable.
Then it dawned on her: of all the men whose suffering might be assuaged by her presence but whose body was unfamiliar–her father.
So she stood, straightened her skirt and left.
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