Han Ong

They moaned and groaned, pouring water and knocking the tubs around.

Suddenly one of them slipped, fell with a slap, and yawped.

Boris Ivanovich leapt up, ready to help.

He peered over the curtain.

Zinaida and Marfa were pulling Nura off the floor, spilling over with childlike laughter.

Boris Ivanovitch froze.

He'd grown accustomed to their craggy faces, their dark disfigured hands, their stomped-out feet, everything that showed through their ancient faded clothing.

But now, dear Lord, he was seeing their naked bodies for the first time.

He couldn't take his eyes off them.

Their long, gray hair flowed over their bumpy spines.

Their wrists and feet looked even heavier and more horrible than usual, broken from working the land, gnarled like the roots of old trees.

Their fingers were the same color as the earth they'd been digging up for decades.

Their bodies were pale, so white that they were blue like skim milk.

Marfa still had her breasts with their dark animal-like nipples, while the other women's seemed to have melted away, leaving behind flaccid, translucent bags that drooped down to their bellies.

Zinaida had long, beautiful legs, or what remained of them.

All of their butts had been rubbed down to flat spots, with only folds of skin left to mark where the cheeks had once been full.

I'm telling you, Noora, I can't pick up heavy things anymore.

Whenever I try, my uterus starts falling out, Marfa said provocatively with a hint of pride.

Boris Ivanovich saw that there was a gray sack dangling between her legs like a tobacco pouch.

He cringed but couldn't turn away from these three harpy graces.