“Dr. Holle will take good care of you,” Karen said as she left the room, her voice low like she was divulging a secret I should feel good about. And I did feel good. I felt relieved to be taken care of, an excellent candidate.

Dr. Holle knocked, then entered. In the flesh she looked the same as her photograph: Photoshopped. She looked like she’d be cold to the touch. Jake stood and shook her hand. “Good to see you again,” they said to each other. Dr. Holle sat on a rolling stool and checked her chart. “So what brings you in today, Anna?”

“Okay,” I said. My voice belonged to someone else. I fumbled with my phone. Just this morning I’d filled my notes app with questions. The internet had advised prospective patients to ask lots of questions. “I have some questions,” I said but Jake cut me off.

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, “I’m going to step out and take this.” His phone wasn’t vibrating. I waited for the door to close behind him, glad when he was gone. Because I wanted what Dr. Holle had the power to give me and didn’t want Jake weighing in like it had been his idea. The internet had told me plastic surgeons wouldn’t operate on women who came in at their boyfriends’ or manager’s or boyfriend/manager’s behest. “Dump his ass!” they’d supposedly cry.

“I know breast implants are a safe, common procedure, and I’d like to have them done,” I said. “I would like to know what kind of incision you recommend and what size—I’m thinking a full C-cup. And I would like to know whether you use textured or smooth implants and your opinion on the Keller Funnel technique.”

Dr. Holle smiled at me like I was little, a little girl. “Okay honey, let’s see what we’re working with first.” She drew my robe open, surveilled my torso like an empty canvas. I smelled her coffee breath. She squeezed each breast with a force that surprised me, coming from a woman. Her fingers were actually cold. When she let go she rolled backward on her chair, turned to a computer, and started typing. “I’m going to issue a diagnosis of hypomastia with slight asymmetry.”

“Hypomastia?”

“It means not enough breast tissue. And your right breast is slightly larger than your left.”

“Right,” I said like I’d always known that when in truth, I’d never noticed. So many things about myself I hadn’t noticed. When I looked in the mirror, I apparently didn’t see what other people saw.

“You’re an excellent candidate for silicone implants,” Dr. Holle said. “Given your low BMI, I recommend no more than 450 cc, smooth, moderate profile, delivered via a periareolar incision. Anything bigger would look out of place on such a small girl.”

She smiled and I smiled back.

“Any questions?” she asked.