Galatea

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IT WAS ALMOST sweet the way they worried about me.

“You’re so pale,” the nurse said. “You must keep quiet until your color returns.”

“I’m always this color,” I said. “Because I used to be made of stone.”

The woman smiled vaguely, pulling up the blanket. My husband had warned her that I was fanciful, that my illness made me say things that would sound strange to her.

“Just lie back and I’ll bring you something to eat,” she said. She had a mole on the side of her lip and I liked to watch it while she talked. Some moles are beautiful and distinctive, like dappling on a horse. But some have hairs in them, and look pulpy like worms, and hers was this kind.

“Lie back,” she repeated, because I hadn’t.

“You know what I think would be good for my color? A walk,” I said.

“Oh no,” she said. “Not until you’re better. Feel how chilled your hands are?”

“That’s the stone,” I said, “like I told you. It can’t get warm without sun. Haven’t you ever touched a statue?”

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