Let me show you, she said.

She proceeded to open her stomach, almost as if she were made from wood or metal, something not flesh, and it cleanly opened to reveal a dark chamber.

I stood there, not sure what to do. It was the first time a woman had ever exposed her stomach in front of me.

Look inside, she gently urged.

I stopped down and peered into the aperture. It was too dark to see anything. I asked her if I could shed some light.

Sure, she said.

I took my lighter out of my pocket and produced a small flame. The stomach’s interior illuminated, revealing, not organs, but what looked like miniature shelving units, with square compartments, each one containing a framed photograph. The light not only illuminated the photos, but also seemed to be enlarging them, as if the light were generating an optical illusion of magnification.

I saw a photo of her underwater, gagged and bound, the seltzery grammer of bubbles surrounding her, as if produced by another unseen mouth.

This photo of you underwater…

That’s me drowning. That’s happened a lot. My stomach has curated a ton of drowning photos.

She stated this neutrally, no inflection whatsoever.

Other photos showed various isolated body parts, portraits of dismemberment if you will. A wrist braceleted in purple bruise. Reddened ankles. A swollen eye caked in doughy moss. A nipple. Broken fingernails. Winter-chapped pair of lips. A gummy earlobe.

These body parts…

They’re all me. All mine, that is. In different phases. Hurt, not hurt, in need of care, signifying, keeping time. The stomach has an affinity for devouring images of body parts.

Ow, I winced, feeling the lighter-flame singe my thumb. I stuck my thumb into my mouth, and cooled the stinging with saliva and sucking. I was about to reignite the flame and return to gazing, but she closed her stomach and said—That’s all for now. I don’t want this to become a perverse sideshow attraction.

Was she kidding? How could a woman inexplicably opening her stomach not be a perverse sideshow attraction? I imagined touring the country with her, going to festivals and fairgrounds, with her charging money for people to look inside her stomach.

   I will let you see more later, she said. Not now. Later. when I decide to open up again. You’ve got to understand—you get to stand there and look at all the things inside my stomach, for you it’s a show, but for me … I have to live with the contents of my stomach. You’re a witness, but I am a bearer.

With that statement, she left the room. I couldn’t tell if I was in trouble or not.