The Architect preferred white plates. No rims. Slick buggers, soapy and wet. A slice plowed her middle finger when she dropped one.

An ironic flip-off.

She saw blood and bone. Her meat and marrow.

Her axis tilted sideways, but she stayed upright.

Barely.

Same as this morning.

She removed bandages and padding. Her non-football-loving Architect swaddled. A lop-sided linebacker.

Underneath, she found chewed meat, sealed with tape and gut. Because she loves the Architect, she’s still swallowing bile. Smiling. Holding his good hand.

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