Before me looms the crotch of a well-built man. I frown a bit, studying my target, and then move in to work. I think I am finally doing something positive for society. The industry of airbrushing crotch details from the photos of underwear models is an oft overlooked, but necessary one. And I must admit: I am good at what I do. From day one, I've taken to it "like a fish to water," as Mr. Flane likes to put it.

The work of turning a revealing, well-defined crotch area into a flat surface is not always an easy one. But the underwear packaging industry needs me, needs us, and I do not intend to let them down. Work is grueling, and when I get home, I fall asleep immediately.

                                               

I wake up, and it must be the middle of the night. There is a figure standing in the doorway, but it is too slender to be my roommate. I sit up in my bed. "Oh, don't mind me; I'm just going to throw up in your toilet."

I should mention that because of the poor design of our apartment, the bathroom is accessible only through my room.

"Are you sick?"

"No, David and I just ordered takeout. I am expelling all the bad energy from the food." It's the cutest excuse for bulimia I've heard. After she finishes purging, this mystery girl emerges from the bathroom, checking the corners of her mouth for vomit with the back of her hand. "My name is Persephone, by the way."

I introduce myself, and after a short pause, ask "So, are you and David... seeing each other?"

"Oh no, we just met today, on a shoot." David models occasionally when he can find the work, and today he was paired up with Persephone. She tells me they were shooting pictures to be used as the default photograph that comes in a picture frame, with David and Persephone playing a happy couple. She reaches into her pocket and produces a copy of the final product. I hold the picture close to see it. While the darkness makes it difficult to see the real Persephone standing next to me, I can see from the photo that she is quite beautiful. I am instantly smitten.

                                               

The next day at work I feel great, and I blaze through four crotches before lunch. As I approach the water cooler that afternoon, I come across some co-workers.

"That kid has got talent."

"Can you believe it? He reminds me of... Mitchell." They all get silent, and look down at their feet.

"Who's Mitchell?" I ask. The group disperses as I approach.

                                               

In the evening Persephone is back, first to throw up and then to tell me about her day. These sorts of details usually bore the hell out of me, but from Persephone, they are like a fine wine, flowing from her mouth, to my ears.

In my dream that night Persephone is wasting away, her thin figure becoming thinner, her skin becoming more revealing of the skeleton beneath, tantalizing me with details that are normally hidden beneath layers of flesh. I wake up in a cold sweat.

                                               

At work the next day, I cannot stop thinking about Persephone, and my work begins to suffer. During lunch break, I lock myself in the bathroom and throw up the bagel I had for breakfast, hoping the experience will help me to feel closer to her. It doesn't.

                                               

That night, Persephone passes through my room as per her normal routine. Tonight I decide to tell her about my dream of how she was wasting away. I also add in a bit about how David was there and he didn't try to help her. She seems very concerned, "But if the bad energy remains inside of me, it will destroy me."

"Every time you let the bad energy out," I tell her, "it destroys me a little bit." Then, without much thought, I blurt out, "I want to be your toilet."

As soon as the words have left my mouth, David enters the room.

"Hey, what's going on in here, you two?" he asks.

I realize that I have created an awkward situation. No more words are said. Together, David and Persephone leave the room.

I awaken later that night. The sounds of loud, passionate sex are coming from David's room. I go to the toilet, and throw up.

                                               

Before leaving for work today, I grab the picture of Persephone and David that she gave to me when we first met. I arrive at work and place it at my workstation. I stare at it for ten solid minutes. Then, before I fully comprehend what I am doing, I start to de-chisel David's facial features, removing those offending shapes which have taunted me and stolen the girl I loved. When I am finished, his face is a perfectly flat surface, devoid of any features. He is no longer David. I am terrified by this image. I roll my chair back, away from this ghastly portrait, and discover that Mr. Flane is standing over my shoulder.

"Mr. Kowalski, I would like to speak to you in my office."

                                               

Mr. Flane pulls down the shades.

"I've seen this sort of behavior in one other individual. His name was Mitchell." A chill runs up my spine.

"Who was he?"

"He was the best we ever had... too good, I'd say. Always striving for perfection. Well, perfection is unattainable, and he learned that the hard way."

"What happened?"

"Oh, he cut off his penis."

I notice that all the pictures on Mr. Flane's desk are not of loved ones, but instead, old, yellowing photos of airbrushed crotches, probably some of his favorites from when he was a child.

"Do you have a family, Mr. Flane?"

"No, Mr. Kowalski, I do not. Loved ones are a waste of time. They distract you from your craft. To be a perfect tool of industry, you must cast aside loved ones, for they will only deceive you and bring great pain to you. This is my word." Mr. Flane pauses, then "Some of the folks around the office think you're too inexperienced, but I think I know you better. I have a special job for you. This one, Mr. Kowalski, is for a billboard. Your work, your art, will be elevated high above the city, for all to see. I believe in you. Do not let me down."

                                               

I return to my desk, and find a large glossy picture. I approach cautiously, and then recoil in horror. The model in the picture is David. The crotch that has devastated and destroyed my life now needs me.

I know I have to make a choice.

And I know I cannot do what is being asked of me.

I grab the picture, and tear it in half, right down the middle. And then I run. I will head for the forest. I will never again speak of the love I've left behind, or my roommate, or my apartment, or my summer job. I will start a new life. I will marry a beautiful young girl. I will have a family, and they will never know of this previous life. I will not be a victim of this job, as Mitchell was. I will escape.