Lissie hates that hospital smell. She hates the disinfectant, the blinding whites and the sterility of the surfaces. It makes her feel 14 again and in the brief moment where she relives that memory, she feels the sting of tears in her eyes before she swallows, hard.

It's a different kind of waiting room. She's a different kind of girl. The coffee table in front of her is covered in magazines and her mother reaches forward to pick one off the top. Explaining your mommy makeover to your children! Lissie feels her hands sweat. Her eyes are focused on the door. She wants to leave but, like in a nightmare, her body is frozen in the chair. Her stomach turns as the window of opportunity closes in.

"The doctor will see you now."

Gone.

Aesthetically pleasing. Enhance. Improve. Complete. These are the words that ring in her ears as her eyes survey the room. The posters on the wall show women smiling. Teeth white, faces so perfectly symmetrical she could draw an axis grid on each one like a target. Lissie looks at her mother. She could be on one of those posters, too.

She stares back at a completely unfamiliar face. She grimaces as he takes hers in his hands that are rough and unwelcome. He looks at her like he's trying to solve a problem, like every single one of her faults can be read in her symmetry, in her non-symmetry. He runs his thumb down the bridge of her nose. Bingo.

"What about her septum?"

The embarrassment Lissie feels almost pushes her head into her knees. The doctor lifts her face up to the light again and she closes her eyes this time because it makes it easier to pretend she is anywhere else.

"Oh, sweetheart." A bad habit, he tells her. He sounds sympathetic but it's false. Lissie knows because she learned the difference between true and fake sincerity early on.

When they get to the car, Lissie puts her seatbelt on and stares down at the pamphlets in her lap. "Happy birthday." Her mother pats a rigid hand against Lissie's thigh. She sinks into her seat and stuffs her hands into her pockets where paper rustles.

She reminds herself that it wont feel this way forever.