at the top of the staircase, she lingered with those four toes on her left foot. the void, the stump, glaring at me from beside the banister. 'i will be a man tonight,' she declared, fingering her dusty braces with a gloved hand. her grandfather's gloves -- moth-eaten, lipstick-stained, with the faint odour of women clinging to the fabric, buried in the seams. just before she strided into the wet evening, her fingers descended upon her fleshly lips, tapping. she ran to the bathroom for some lipstick.