Postnatural

We met at a ‘postnatural’ conference—bumped shoulders at the panel on cloning. She was an artist. One of those esthetes who get off while listening to podcasts on Wittgenstein and sipping mugs of rooibos earl grey. I was a biologist. Physiology, kinesiology. I liked the body in movement. She liked taxidermy. She took photographs of dead animals. Her hair stuck out in tufts. We got coffee after the lecture on pet clone exports. She took hers black. She took me home. Her walls were lined with invertebrates. She asked if she could photograph me. I figured, why not? She pulled out the biggest Platyhelminthes I’d ever seen. Hulking husk of a worm. She strung it around my neck like a wreath. She said: You’ve got excellent negative space. I said: Nice creatures. When she’d finished shooting, she asked: When you die, would you rather be preserved or cremated? I said: I’ve never thought about it, but I think I might like to donate my heart to science.