Not That Kind of Girl: Sweetened

Every night Sarile steps from the shower and rubs handsful of sugar over the glistening surface of her skin: face and neck, breasts and belly, arms and legs. Her husband steps in just long enough to pat sugar onto her back and bottom and tell her goodnight. No kissing—it disturbs the sugar.

Six mornings a week, Sarile rinses the sugar from her skin, smooths moisturizer onto every centimeter of her face and body, and dresses for work. On Sundays, she rinses, moisturizes, and steps into clean cotton pajamas. She conditions her hair, pulls it into the tightest, highest ponytail possible and slips a set of tattered index cards into her pocket. Finally, she settles into the fresh sheets that have materialized on her bed and slips a cool gel mask over her eyes. Every two hours, she replaces the mask with the fresh one that appears on her bedside table. Sarile remains in her room all day with the blinds drawn and the lights off. If necessary, she rings a large silver bell. When her husband arrives, she pulls an index card from her pocket, points to the appropriate request, and waits for her needs to be met.

Sarile has not felt the sun on her skin since she was a child. She has not eaten any sugar other than the few crystals that sneak between her lips in the dark. She has never slept all night in the same bed with her husband. She has not attended church or a Sunday afternoon matinee or community event in 45 years. But she has the skin of a toddler, plump and smooth and translucent. Her lips are full and their color is rich. Her jawline and eyelids are as taut as a Vogue model's.

At 63, Sarile is free from creases and crinkles. She can not count the cost.