She has to tilt his head weird to get at it. Along his jaw there is light, but the light is recessed high, so scant, unlike his beard brushfire.
She looms ravenlike with tweezers. His tendons, helpless, spasm as he swallows, throat taut, warily dependent on her stomach for sudden surgery.
She scrapes first, then picks the dermal barrier bloody. Infection oozes green in cotton wool. She daubs and digs. He winces, and she sauces him in iodine.
She applies a searing paste and tears a patch raw, newborn skin revealed, blaring red. His eyes, watering green, overflow with shock. She holds him crooning cool, tears and blood sluicing her swollen breasts. Something black with wings inside her chest unfolds.
He feels it beat her heart-rate cruel, shifts cautious not to call it killing forward. Disengaged, the gleaming wanes, heat the clitoral keystone in her gorified archway.