I leaned back in my chair and stretched, buttons straining to be free, adding to the allure of the package.
“What do you think they’re worth?”
Her hands restless in her lap, baby rats squirming for their mother’s teat, I knew what she wanted.
“They feel great, too. Certainly not fake, but better than real. With a pair of these, the industry’s yours for the taking.”
I tapped a fountain pen against my lower lip, as if lost in thought. Assessing her.
“What would you give for such a tempting rack?”
Her shoulders hunched up and down.
“My eye teeth.”
A hand fumbled for her bag, delivered her wallet onto my desk.
“Done. You can pay me after.”
She was drowsy after the procedure, the herbs took them that way sometimes. The right address, a lab coat white as a Hollywood smile, and they didn’t ask too many questions. Not till after.
“Can I touch them yet?”
I smiled, reassuring her. It made it … tasty.
“Touch what you like, with our procedures there are no scars, no infections, no healing times. Just… satisfaction.”
Her hands squeezed 32Ds, plump and warm, and she sighed with happiness.
“Can I get you a drink?”
She nodded, tried to look around the room properly.
“My face feels weird.”
“It will for a while, but you’ll soon get used to it.”
Taking the glass of water in her hand, she tried to focus, and I trembled with glee.
“Shall I settle the bill now? I love what you’ve done, I’m so happy.”
I couldn’t help a giggle leaking out like a spoonful of pee with a fright.
“You’ve already paid.”
She cocked her head to one side, frowned a little.
“But we never agreed a final figure.”
“Oh, we did.”
Her other hand found her face, tried to rub her eyes as she concentrated on what I’d said, then flitted from side to side as if in semaphore of terror.
Priceless. The tapes were rolling. My customers, my real customers would be very pleased.
“What’s this? What’s on – my eye, what’s wrong with my eye?”
“I just did as you said.”
I leaned in close, so close she could smell the sulphur on my breath.
“When we agreed prices. You said.”
Nearly a whisper, but the sound guys were good. They’d have caught it.
“To give your eye teeth.”
And as she cried, as she wailed, I watched the tears creep past the thick white lashes of bone round her eye.
Now mascara; that might be a problem.
By Gill Hoffs