Outside, I stood at the wrought iron gate, minding my son’s configuration of sticks and withered black walnut skins. From the ashy horizon, my husband’s royal blue and red spotted Lycra form was approaching. Even from a distance, I discerned the slow, methodical steps—managed only in disguise. It seemed as if his pelvis were controlled by another person’s brain.     

He confessed to what I already knew: fifty-three morph suits, from cardinal to canary to bister. Plus, the flags, the patterns, and an orange one with spider webs gummed over its crotch. In other words, he had them all, and they weren’t cheap. The human form encased in Lycra is not a pretty sight. The face is minimized: the nose, lips, ears flattened. But the rest extrudes.   

His point about anonymity was understandable, if illogical. It even made me love him for a moment. But we lived in a city where no one ever arrived; clearly, his habits produced the opposite effect.

“Send them back,” I ordered.

“They’re like bathing suits. Once the sticker’s gone, you can never send them back.”

After two weeks of maternity, I returned to the nursing home to find my co-worker had been replaced by an orange-haired girl named Ethel. I retreated to the walk-in refrigerator, flung open the icy cavern and found a half-eaten box of Junior Mints. I emptied it all into my mouth, then flattened the box and tucked it beneath my underwear elastic.   

I started clocking out for lunch, zigzagging through the drizzling melee of downtown. I found a cafe that served giant Styrofoam cups of Vichyssoise. The soup was nothing special. But anything with heavy amounts of salt and cream reminded me that, for better or worse, my husband might stay home forever, each new son allotting him five more years. I was free to worry about nothing one might call fundamental. Food and shelter were important; the rest was mine to dishevel.