The Woman Who Is Sawed in Half every night longs for a different name. Panfila, like her grandmother who had three breasts and became a fortune-teller. Carlotta after her mother, whose feet looked like hands. For hours each day, the Woman Who Is Sawed in Half gazes in the mirror, fingers tracing the black jagged seam spanning her waist like a belt. Sometimes after a show, unzipping her torso from her legs, the Woman Who Is Sawed in Half wonders if she is really two women. She remembers how she was pulled from her mother in two pieces, the doctors’ bewilderment, her father’s disappointment. More than anything, The Woman Who Is Sawed in Half dreams of a day when she will wake to find herself seamless. Then, she can trade in the circus life, its fishnet stockings and sequins. Then, she will be just like other women. The Woman Who Is Sawed in Half knows this is just a pipe dream, always beyond her reach. Her grandmother’s words have lived for years under her skin, without a name, loneliness cannot find you.