When she got herself a soft-bristle toothbrush, it was replaced by one that had “better” medium-soft bristles. The box promised superior hygiene in a lab report kind of font. “I bought extras,” he said, pleased. She thanked him and wondered a bit before shrugging off the incident.
He forked and served dinner in proportions he swore would keep her “light, full, but not sluggish.” It looked pretty—greens geometrically supporting grains, and protein placed in a symmetry, with the promise of good health. She ate and felt fine, but something edged inside her: whose appetite was she filling, and why did it have to be so precise?