She moves about the office like a happy homemaker, clutching silver tools: mirrors, vacuums, and shears. She unwraps each device from sterilized plastic as she would a sandwich from wax paper. Her coifed hair rustles above her neck, floats across the room and descends as she sits. She begins her work. The charred scent of cloves and metal fills my mouth. The hooked instruments prod and drill. I am prone to her gaze and absolute focus on this one tiny area of my body, senseless and bleeding. I think I know why this work satisfies her. A speechless hour passes. Then she smiles. She shakes my hand and turns briskly on her heels. I am unconvinced by the attention she gives and crave her practiced reassurance. Alone, I gather my purse and sweater. My jaw aches. I feel the need to explain myself, as if I have done something terribly wrong.