The electron microscope photograph of the fallopian tubes captivated her. The fimbriae that held the egg were like the soft flaming feathers of an erotic dancer.

He snapped photographs of her in the abandoned orchard. As the setting sun diffused light around her, she sculpted her dancer’s body, and embodied Daphne.

She opened her purse, unfolded the torn porn, and told the plastic surgeon, “I want to look like that.”

I imagine it was a clawfoot tub that Lizzie Siddal floated in for Millais. Even though she wore all her clothes, she just about froze when the heat went out. Now she floats in oil on canvas, at the Tate Gallery. Her hands are still ice-cold.

In the after-life, Freud medicates Lady Macbeth for compulsive hand-washing and insomnia. Hamlet refuses to go to therapy since Freud said salacious things about his mother.

He took her out to his garage to show her his classic car. She wanted to touch the paint and leather seats, but he had sealed the car in plastic.

He told her implants blew up in your face like TNT. Later, he said he wanted to put them in her.