The postman’s nose even resembled a beak, and, if she remembers correctly, his teeth, all stained and crocked, were as big as giant paving slabs. That morning, on her doorstep, she crossed her arms over her breasts to prevent his bulging eyes seeing anything more. It was the first time she had ever done such a thing, and in an instant, she felt less of a girl and more of a woman, and she hated every second of it. From that moment, it was something she seems to remember having to do on an almost daily basis. It didn’t make her feel wanted or desired. The attention of men was a burden that hung around her neck like the anchor of a ship. It weighed her down, drowning her each time it occurred by filling her lungs with everything but air. She didn’t blame them for their lecherous ways, for they were only human after all, but still. She believed it was one’s duty to escape the cage of nature and all the lame instincts that went with it. What a pity most didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t think it was possible, or they didn’t want to simply because they enjoyed the way the chains felt around their necks. Sniffing the air, the smell of paint coupled with the memory of the lake and the pervy postman makes her fingers shake. Holding them out before her, they reach for the canvas as if it were the holy chalice Jesus drank from at the Last Supper. She’s not religious by any means, but her mother’s influence is ingrained into the very fabric of her being the same as her father’s madness.