I pushed back my hair. It kept falling over my eyes. I could not see all that I wanted to see because of the thin cotton hospital gown in which someone had dressed me. It was a short, apron-like gown that the moonlight vaguely illumined. I noted, upon closer inspection that it was covered with tiny blue flowers that had faded almost to white. I liked it, but it was in the way, so I removed it, pulling it over my head in a movement that slid the well-worn fabric deliciously over my skin. The muscles of my arms and back grew tense, then relaxed, stretching and reaching pleasurably after the long, drawn-out sleep. Still I could not see well enough.
I fetched and dragged over one of the chairs. I climbed shakily up on it. Then, standing before the mirror, I took a good look at myself. Wide shoulders and large breasts, soft globes eerily lit by the moonlight, the nipples erect; flat white expanse of belly, subtly curved; a wedge of jet where the legs joined; long pale legs of a nacreous opalescence; they ended in marvelous feet. I loved the feet, preferring them to the hands because the toes were so delicate, like long buds—tender and rose-tipped—and because unlike the rough fingertips, those toes felt everything intensely: the cold linoleum floor, its uneven texture, the way I stretched and spread them.
—DEAD LOVE/Chapter 13.3/Live Dead Girl