“We have such a large variety that every girl can find something to suit her needs,” she says.

I stop in front of a tall man with black hair and olive skin. His jaw is perfect. I can already feel the razor scratch of his stubble on my shoulder. It is already our Sunday morning. My body generates its wants, my soft parts lighting.

I stare into his eyes for a moment and the corners of his mouth twitch to fight a smile. My heart tweaks a bit.

“I like him,” I say.

“Excellent choice,” she says. “You seem well-suited to each other.”

I nod and see him start to nod and stop himself.

“Dismissed,” she says. “With #8 on hold for our friend here.”

The men file out of the room in an orderly way, including my #8.

“Please,” she says, and gestures back to the chair. We sit, my body newly electric.

“You’ve made a great choice today,” she begins. “But we must discuss payment.”

“I’m prepared,” I say.

“The cost for #8 is $15,000,” she says.

“I have $7,000,” I say quietly, my stomach shooting through with the thought of never seeing or owning #8, my body hurting with total and absolute want, a lust I haven’t felt before.

“That’s much too little, I’m afraid,” she says. “But there is another option.”

“There is?”

“Yes. For the money you have available, you can purchase one half of your #8.”

The thought drives a dagger through me.

“By one half,” she continues, “I mean that you will select the top or bottom half of #8 and we will perform a simple operation. It’s a patented surgery to separate your half. You can take your half home today, or have it delivered.”

Sickness rallies inside of me. I can’t stand the thought of hurting him. But when I think about leaving him here, everything about the situation goes crystalline.

“Top half,” I say, thinking of his twitching corners, of the scruff, of my shoulders.

“Wise choice,” she says. “You must care for him.”

“Can I come back for the rest?” I ask, heart pounding.

“Yes, as long as no one else purchases his bottom half,” she says.

I consider another month of weak meals.

“Yes,” I say.

Hours later, she brings him into the red room, where I have been calculating ways to make sure my life accommodates him.

He is perched on a wheelchair, the half of him, the torso up.

“Hello,” I say.

He looks up at me with drugged eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift a bit.

“Hello,” he says and takes my hand for a moment, which is a beautiful thing, the warmth of our skins. I thank her and steer him away.

I help him into the front seat. As we drive home, he holds my hand over the gear shift and my eyes go wet again, even though we are silent, even though we haven’t said a thing.