I come home, take off my jacket and hang it on the coathook. Outside, the winter weather is cold and dark. I turn inside, where the sepia lamplight casts a warm hue on the hallway. I stand by the stairs. Atop them stands a girl–my girl; the Girl with No Face.

She has skin fair and dark, covered in a white nightgown, on a body heavy and light, pronounced and subtle, standing tall and small; her hair short and long, hazel and blonde, black and dyed bright green, curly and straight, placed neatly and in a night-time mess. I look up at her with a smile.

‘Hello,’ I greet her.

She says nothing in response, for she has no tongue. She does not smile back, for she has no face.

I take my girl to breakfast, lunch, dinner. She eats everything, leaving her plate untouched. She has the finest palate, knowing no difference between any one taste or another. The waiter brings us some wine; she doesn’t prefer red to white, white to red.

I see a couple walking along the canal, illuminated by the streetlights. I tell a joke about them, and I laugh.

She does not laugh, for she has no lips. She does not eat a thing, for she has no face.

At home in bed, the television shines a movie onto our cuddled bodies. I look down at my beautiful girl. She lies limply on my shoulder.

‘You’re beautiful,’ I tell her.

She does not move.

I run my hand up her cold skin, following her fingers, her arm, her shoulder. My fingers rest on her neck. I love her, and she loves me. I massage her motionless flesh. She has no pulse. She falls on my lap like a doll.

She lets out no cry of suffering, for she has no mouth. She lets out no last breath, for she has no face.

28.VI.2024