Men won’t return Margret’s calls. There was a time when hers was the face in that flicker before the bedroom light turned off. Now there is no beauty in the way her skin lays. Flesh forms her cheeks at irregular angles. It’s an unsightly shape, an unattractive shape, an unflattering shape. She has pockets of skin that won’t hold on. It falls from a chin-cliff like snowdrifts. Not dangling skin, but hills blister-hard in hues of flesh scrubbed blue. The sensation beneath Margret’s fingertips, when she closes her eyes, feels like something raw.