Still Undone

The waiting room smelled like floor wax

and someone's expensive cologne.

I sat there thinking about how much

vulnerability costs, how you have to

let someone cut into you to know

what's wrong.

When she came out, she was buttoning

her cardigan over her own clothes,

but something in her was still undone.

The gown hung over her arm—pale blue,

little flowers printed on it like they

could make the indignity cute, like

they could make you forget you were

just a body on a table.

She smiled at me apologetically.

I wanted to tell her there was nothing

to be sorry for, but the gown had

already done its work. It had made her

small. It had made her exposed.

We drove home without speaking.

I knew she was still partly in that gown,

still being looked at, still being charged

for the privilege of being vulnerable.