“Your pussy. It’s so tight.”

I used to like hearing him say this. Lately, it depressed me. It made me consider the impossible, Escheresque arc of male desire, the built-in obsolescence of the female body. If a man loved a woman, he’d want her to have his child. And when she gave him that child, he’d thank her by fucking a newer woman, with an unspent vagina, a cervix still intact. Some of this showed on my face. I knew this because I could see myself. He liked to watch us in the mirror. I was less keen. Something about the surface of the glass distorted our reflections.