She grasps the wash-greyed nightdress by the hem and pulls it over her head in front of the bathroom mirror.
Normally she does not pause and contemplate the reflected flesh, but today, again, her breasts catch her eye.
Pink tipped like a tender sea-animal, high and firm, their youthfulness was not so pronounced when she was thirty; but now, nearing her fortieth birthday they seemed riper and perkier than the rest of her, Dorian Grey breasts.
They are a secret repository for her hope, they are filled with it, they store it all so that if asked about hope she would say she has none, but it is all trapped under her areolas.
They grow ever more buoyant, one day she will float to the ceiling and graze her skin on the woodchip.
Luckily, hopelessly, they don't grow much over the years.