Marked Stories

Maybe it’s the posture. She shifts again in the oddly-shaped chair. It still feels wrong, what should be the headrest presses against her breasts, and the back forces her legs apart. She remembers being more comfortable the last time. Beside her he waits patiently, his intent unreadable behind his mask. Nearby is a tray of tools that she saw once when she arrived and from which she has averted her eyes ever since. He clea...