Angela

It was too early to say whether Angela would be beautiful, even when most of her bandages had been removed and she had exclaimed about the novelty flatness of her stomach.

She was still on a liquid diet, unable to exercise or start an eating regime with her designated personal trainer. She could wait, though. To look like she was gonna look, she could wait for years if she needed to. Buddy, it's taken long enough to get here.

She had a raw laugh, even though she'd given up smoking just before her carnival of operations. She laughed because she was wearing braces on her teeth; she laughed because she was pumped so full of botox that she could no longer move her face; she laughed because the surgeon had accidentally cut off the pinkie of her left hand with his scalpel while removing the liver spots on her knuckles.

She saw the beautiful new Angela in her head, and that was the Angela she was going to become, even without one of her fingers (what use are pinkies anyway?)

It was weeks since she had had coffee, or wine, or broccoli, or sex.

Her husband, Martin, had been sitting at home by the phone, waiting to hear her new voice, the voice of a beautiful woman.