It seems rude to write about your body, or yours, but all the words wrapped around my tongue each night seem to be about them. The curve of a hip, a widening blue eye, a stubbled jaw, a shade of lipstick. All the foolish purgatories I had dropped myself into, all sins real and imagined, sat up inside my chest and took note of this strange glut of fortunes. I guess I mean to say, I know my luck.