heritable visage

One day Jane’s hair starts to fall out. Not in that “I’m shedding” way, but in a “Wow, the entirety of my scalp is noticeably less covered by hair!” way. She wanders onto the screened-in porch, and falls into deep reverie. The trees are golden, the air fragrant. She wonders if her husband has noticed. She wonders if this is the product of an undiagnosed autoimmune disorder. Maybe there are too few vegetables in her diet? A wasp is attempting to escape the upper left corner of the porch. Her legs and arms are still amply furnished. She checked. She returns to the house and begins to cook salmon fillets in a cast iron skillet.


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