They're tender. Almost sore, as if air is an affront to them. When she touches them (ginger, uncomprehending, at the lip of disgust) they shrink back like the feathered limbs of some filter feeder, flush against her skin. In this state, they're nothing more than grooves, or rather cuts, as if her neck has been neatly and painlessly filleted. But seconds pass, and they split and rise slightly, and delicate corruguations within can be seen, carmine with blood.

Gills. Her gills.

She is quiet before the mirror. Probing fingertips over ridges, part of her yet alien.

Her mouth tastes of salt.