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Although Ann enjoyed every moment, she never grew accustomed to the notion of the stranger inside of her, and deduced that her sudden licentiousness was a result of the deep change within her—from an inferior, invisible woman to a woman who controlled the fate of others, a woman treated with reverence by those around her, a woman who, despite her continued adherence to her most exceptional characteristic, spread fear among the young nurses that joined the staff. These days they looked at her admiringly, most assuredly noticing her existence. Now that her humanity had been confirmed, her body started to seek out her femininity and found it in the world of make-believe—Ann’s favorite fantasy entailed a slightly different take on Sleeping Beauty: The handsome man from the health club, who has fallen into a vegetative state after an accident, is cared for by the devoted nurse. She tries to bring him back to life in every way, but when there is no other choice, she puts her hands on the plug and brings her lips to his in farewell. The patient opens his blue eyes, draws her close, and thanks her in the most appropriate manner. Ann fed off the fantasy for months, enriching it with speculation regarding her dreamy partner’s life. One time, he’s an accomplished scientist conducting complex experiments in his lab; another time he’s an impulsive artist overflowing with fresh ideas; but at all times, he’s a shy lover who has eyes for her and her alone. The first time she saw him from the Spot, she swore her allegiance. A year later, her mate was still the one. Soon she would unplug her hundredth patient and get a life, which would, one way or another, involve her athlete. Maybe she’d even summon the courage to walk straight through the door of the terrifying place and ask to sign up for a membership. She laughed and dismissed her frivolity as nothing more than a ridiculous fantasy. Ann loved no one, certainly not a nameless sweaty someone. And the Spot? The Spot sat on the rift between true and false. When she was overexcited she told herself that her athlete played but a minor role in the creation of her fantasy, and that if he didn’t exist, she’d find a substitute.
    Yet for all her self-assurances, she was proven wrong on the third evening since his disappearance. Ann looked up, discovered his absence once again and didn’t know whether to be happy or sad: the Spot had lost its power. She felt nothing, her body sent no objectionable signals; the engine was dead. The debate had been resolved; the man, in his absence, had stolen the pleasure that had been reserved solely for him. Ann was finally willing to admit that his sudden disappearance saddened her. There was a bland taste in her mouth. She bought her favorite chocolate bar, and the bland taste remained. A soft sorrow rose within her. Shoot, she thought and bought another candy, he’s turned invisible. Just like me. She tried to relax, to explain his absence as a vacation or a work-related trip, encouraging herself that he would be back. Then she dismissed the thought. Deep within, beneath the calming voices, she heard a voice say, “He won’t be back. He’s gone. Left you for good.” She moaned, looked at her reflection in the display window, and hissed “inferior.”
    She didn’t sleep all night, bemoaning the bitter end of her fabricated love story. Throughout the next day’s bus commute, she strained to find a plausible excuse for her tardiness. She couldn’t say that she was three hours late because she spent the first five hours of the night crying and only went to sleep at four in the morning. She decided to say that the bus was in an accident. She arrived at the hospital, her story tightly stitched and perfectly packaged. The director swerved past her in the hall and the nurses were dashing about, attending to their chores like industrious ants. Ann bowed her head and smiled sadly. She had no need for an excuse. No one noticed she was