Disconcerted, confused, he strips as well. He can’t think of anything else to do. And there it is, unannounced. All he can manage is “It’s a prosthetic.” He detaches it, tosses it carelessly, callously, onto the floor. His right leg ends just above the knee. Car accident, he tells her. When I was seventeen. The summer after high school. The tossed-away lower leg sits on the floor. It looks like an accident, all by itself: the flesh-colored plastic calf tapering to an ankle that sprouts a toeless foot.
— Michael Cunningham, Steadfast; Tin ‎- из-за разнузданности гламурной