Disappearing Breasts and the Whispers of Cattle

I heard this story in a jazz bar.

That night, Tokyo was experiencing a dense rain, like some invisible, viscous substance threatening to devour the entire city. I sat alone in a corner of the bar, nursing an excessively expensive whiskey. The ice cubes swirled slowly in the amber liquid, like time itself, melting away silently.

The man next to me had been talking in a low voice. He wore a wrinkled linen suit, the collar open to reveal an equally wrinkled shirt underneath. His hair looked like it hadn't been styled in a long time, falling casually over his forehead, obscuring half of his eyes.

"...2.39 million," he said, "for those two...things."

I didn't look up, just absentmindedly swirled the glass in my hand. In Tokyo, such conversations aren't uncommon. People are always happy to share their misfortunes, as if it might alleviate some of the pain.

"You know what the most ridiculous part is?" the man continued, a desperate chuckle in his voice. "They found cattle and moose DNA in them."

I stopped swirling my drink and looked up. Cattle? Moose? It sounded like some kind of absurd joke.

"Autologous fat transfer," the man explained, as if reading my confusion. "The doctor said it was the safest, most natural... And what happened? My breasts are now inhabited by two livestock."

I didn't know what to say. It was beyond my comprehension. This wasn't just a medical malpractice case; it was like a Kafkaesque, absurdist play.

"Who is she?" I asked, trying to bring the conversation back to a more realistic level.

"My ex-wife," the man said. "Or, she used to be."

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. The smoke billowed around his face, like a thin veil, obscuring the emotions in his eyes.

"She was always unhappy with her body," he said. "Always felt like something was missing. She said she wanted to be more 'whole'."

I listened quietly, not interrupting him. I knew that in this story, money, desire, and self-perception were intertwined, forming a complex labyrinth.

"She spent a lot of time searching online, consulting various experts," the man continued. "Finally, she found a doctor who was said to be able to perform miracles."

The doctor promised that he could extract fat from other parts of her body and then inject it into her breasts, giving her a perfect figure.

"Sounds tempting, doesn't it?" The man laughed self-deprecatingly. "No foreign objects, no rejection, everything is your own."

The surgery went smoothly. She recovered quickly. At first, she was very satisfied with her new body. She bought a lot of new clothes and spent hours in front of the mirror admiring herself.

"But soon, she started to feel like something wasn't right," the man said. "She felt like something was...moving inside her breasts."

A chill ran down my spine. It sounded like a scene from a horror movie.

"She went to see the doctor, and the doctor said it was just a normal post-operative reaction," the man said. "But she didn't believe him. She felt like her body was betraying her."

She began to suffer from insomnia and nightmares. In her dreams, she saw her breasts transform into two animals, a cow and a moose, running and bellowing inside her body.

"Finally, she decided to have a thorough examination," the man said. "And you already know the result."

I was silent. I didn't know how to comfort him, or rather, I didn't know how to understand this story.

"She left me," the man said. "She said she couldn't stand her body, and she couldn't stand me."

He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the action slow and deliberate.

"She said she was going to find her true self," the man said. "She was going to go to a place where no one knew her, and start over."

I looked at him, his face devoid of any expression, like a discarded statue.

"Do you think she'll find it?" he suddenly asked me. "Her true self."

I shook my head. In this era dominated by consumerism and false advertising, who can truly find themselves?

The jazz music in the bar continued, the saxophone playing a melancholic melody. The rain was still falling outside, the neon lights of Tokyo flickering in the rain, like broken stars.

I finished the last of my whiskey and got up to leave the bar.

Walking on the wet streets, a sentence suddenly came to mind: We are all prisoners of our own bodies, forever unable to escape.