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.
