In Laura's friend's studio on a futon on the hard wood floor they lay naked with their feet touching. So this is what it's like to hold me, Laura told her friend. Her thin arms, shoulders, her narrow neck, and men so large; her husband years from now will be one with a hairy back, her child enormous making its way outside of her, the two of them filling the space completely. Laura's friend has a scar on her kneecap, a wire within from a ski accident last year. They lay with their feet touching on the futon on the hard wood floor. They lay facing each other, their arms here and there. The smell is her own and not her own. It is not the smell of the mother with the G.I. eyes, a smell that stays with you, medicine through the skin mixed with something unnamed.