The woman with three breasts stopped to look at the card, and even picked it up. It was one of those all-occasion greeting cards done in mock retro style. On the front was a fifties-style illustration of a prim but sexy and curvaceous housewife. She wore the dress you always see, that very domestic dress that doesn’t show much skin but really makes the point that the wearer has an hourglass figure. Her lips were big and red and smiling widely, but something about the smile was ironic. The housewife was poised behind a big easy chair, and she had both of her hands on the top of the chair-back, hovering over it lovingly and protectively. The most noticeable feature of the easy chair was that it was empty. Clean as a whistle and not a single crease or bump in the cushion. And the message, in a retro typeface, made it clear what she was smiling about. It said: Sometimes the best man is an imaginary man.
         Although the woman with three breasts didn’t purchase the card, she lingered over it, because the card said so much to her. She was killing time in a shop in a big urban mall, one that was near a major museum. Imaginary men were of the utmost importance to the woman with three breasts. Since her early teens she had run into them or conjured them up wherever she went, and by now she was quite the connoisseur. Very early on, her few experiences with non-imaginary men - cruel to say the least - had convinced her that the imaginary route was the way to go. The only way, if she wanted a life free from the torture of ridicule and rejection.
         Once the woman with three breasts had crossed the line, had utterly and totally put the possibility of non-imaginary men behind her, the rest of what the modern world has to offer opened up to her, on a more or less equal playing field. She was bright, well-educated and attractive - some would even say beautiful. Her face had certain features that could rival those of the housewife in the greeting card, especially its bone structure. From chin to scalp she possessed precisely what models and actresses covet, the skeletal prominence that keeps skin youthful and glowing well into maturity.
         After musing over the card, the woman went deeper into the mall to do an errand. There was enough time; she still had a good half hour before the museum opened. She entered a fabric store and carefully inspected the new goods that had arrived. She picked out a bolt of this and a bolt of that, added in some sundries, arranged for delivery and paid by card. The woman with three breasts was a virtuoso with a sewing machine. Soon after puberty she learned to sew for survival, to avoid the mortification of entering a clothing store. She created her own patterns and developed crude designs for tops and dresses that would mask and even flatter her upper physique. But her natural talent and intelligence led her even further - into the realm of fabric artistry. She bought books and taught herself how to cut, with proficiency and a bold flair. She was so adept she became a top seamstress, doing complex repairs and alterations for the most demanding clientele. She was sought after by bridal shops and fine boutiques. They wanted her to work on premises but she refused, insisting that the garments be sent to her apartment, where her at-home workshop had grown from an alcove to two large rooms.

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