“What are you wearing?”
She stood at the foot of my bed without her pressure suit. The pink and frilly fabric cupped all her curved parts in interesting ways, I admit, but I was distracted by the lacework of scars spreading across her back.
When she turned to give me a scornful look, I could see the complex topography of her skin. A generation ago, the wing amputations had been butchery, procedures done out of an abundance of cruelty. Today’s fallen angels blend in, but she’d been one of the first.
“I thought I looked sexy,” she said.
“Oh. Yes.”