This woman has a well in her chest and it’s beginning to get annoying. She covered the well over years ago, nailed down planks of wood over the opening and added a layer of bricks and mortar, just to be sure. Anatomically speaking, the well extends down from her jugular notch, that lovely little dip beneath the throat, between her clavicles, and all the way down somewhere deep, perhaps to her bellybutton. Even though it’s covered up, she can still feel it. She can still feel every little trickle of water, every ripple. Eventually she decides to pay the well a visit again. She cracks through the bricks and mortar with a jackhammer, rips the planks up with a crowbar and looks down into the dark. Breathes in the wet scent of fresh water and moss. She doesn’t know how deep the well is. Probably it goes on forever. Maybe she will never know or care. She drops a bucket into the well and pulls up water. It is clear and sweet and she pours it over her head and feels like a goddess from a shaving commercial. This woman has a well in her chest and she doesn’t know why she ever tried to forget it was there.