Nonfiction | January 06, 2012

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I had been going to Mia for about a year, and all of this was routine: the slight ping of the needle as it pierced my skin and the tap-tap of Mia’s finger as she delicately and authoritatively plunged the sharp tip to a painless spot below the surface. It always felt as though my body were a wall and she the handyman, expertly punching the Lilliputian nails into place. With the needles set and the blanket warming me, I rested on my back with my eyes closed and my arms by my sides. Several minutes must have passed. And then something really weird happened.

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