Hornet's Nest

"Mrs. Mauney," her plastic surgeon had told her.
"I don't think you're going to be happy with the results. The lines most troublesome are too deep."
He traced them on her face so gently. She relaxed, held hostage by tenderness. Mrs. Mauney was addicted to going to the doctor. She liked being touched, looked at, analyzed, scrutinized, and checked on after surgery or changes in her medication.
"Well," Mrs. Mauney had told her plastic surgeon.
"If that's what you recommend. And I suppose I am to assume you are referring to a face lift."
"Yes. And the eyes." He held up a mirror to show her.
The tissue above and below her eyes was beginning to droop and puff.
This was irreversible. No amount of cold water splashes, cucumbers or cutting down on alcohol or salt would make a significant difference, she was informed.
"What about my breasts?" she then had inquired.
Her plastic surgeon stepped back to look.
"What does your husband think?" he asked her.
"I think he'd like them bigger."
Her doctor laughed. Why didn't she state the obvious? I Unless a man was a pedophile or gay, he liked them bigger. His gay female patients felt the same way. They were just better sports about it, or pretended to be, if the one they loved didn't have much to offer.
"We can't do all of this at once," the plastic surgeon warned Mrs. Mauney.
"Implants and a face lift are two very different surgeries, and we'd need to space them apart, giving you plenty of time to heal."
"How far apart?" she worried.