You get the lonelies and the uglies, and sometimes they are one and the same. I slot neatly into the third category—­my bushy eyebrows grow back with alarming ferocity, even as I pluck and shave with weary dedication, and one could place a hand flat on my chest, a plateau of nothingness. My eyes have the charming tendency to appear closed in photographs; my cheeks puff out too much when I smile. Excellent skin, but an unseemly green vein lurks above one cheekbone and dark half-moons shadow my under eyes. I consider myself quite unremarkable overall, the sort of girl you’d sit next to in a doctor’s office without glancing up from your dog-eared magazine, not even once. Extra ordinary.

There are brief moments, when I’m appraising my nakedness in the mirror and catch the glow of my youthful skin, the luster emanating from my tanned, slim boy-body. On the days I feel beautiful, I also feel an overwhelming pity for this untouched body—­not to be confused with the clinical touch of a chiropractor, whom I frequent every Wednesday after work to have my uneven hip bones corrected, my sore shoulders kneaded, my neck cracked. When he touches me, the blurry outlines of my body seem to grow firmer and take shape again.

A 9-5, often 9-9, office girl, I wear pantyhose and high heels that fuck up my feet and have blessed me with bunions; silk blouses and tapered knee-length skirts; pressed black cigarette pants on occasion.

People arrange their bodies with aggressive intimacy on the packed trains during rush hour. This, too, I do not mind. On a Monday morning, I find myself molded against the spine of a man not much taller than me. I press my bag against my chest in a show of modesty, but that same warmth that emerges whenever I indulge in a little too much alcohol produces a relentless tingle between my legs.