Naked, she wanders the space between galaxies in silence.

Floating towards a spiral galaxy above her head, she enters it at an angle, such that she intersects with it along a slanted plane. Stars twinkle around her like little jewels.

She is of impossible size. By rights, she should not exist at all. The speed of her nerve signals alone should (and does) break the laws of physics. And yet, she persists regardless, unperturbed by such restrictions. She is.

For centuries, civilisations – those that survive, anyway – will speak of the night part of the sky was blotted out by a distant silhouette. They will never fully be able to accurately map and illustrate the shape of her, to render the dimly-lit, shimmering curves and crevices of her body in the immaculate detail with which they behold them. But their history books will be littered with approximations of her form, with the portents and suppositions of what this apparition must have meant.

She moves through the stellar medium, points and motes twinkling around her like little fairy lights, basking in their warmth.

A luminous star flattens and bursts against her body, a water balloon against her stomach. The hot ball of plasma is extinguished in an instant, ripped apart by her gravity well, burning against her skin like cigarette ash. Reflexively, she brushes it away.

Where her fingers skim what remains of the annihilated star, she makes nebula; some millennia from now, a radio telescope will discover a cloud in space with four distinct striations running its breadth. No astronomer will be able to understand how a distant star somehow went nova before being so cleanly snuffed out.

With a finger, she reaches for a tiny yellow sun, cradling it in the palm of her hand. Her hair flows out behind her in long strands, encircling and engulfing asteroids, clouds of dust, dim pulsars and white dwarfs.

The yellow sun is encircled by planets. She counts maybe five or six. She regards them with eyes wider than the elliptic of the inner, rocky planets that now divert from their orbits, interrupted by the gravity of fingers far wider than their equators. She looks down at them. She wonders if they are populated. If they are looking up at her.

Of course, this is folly, and she knows this. The light will take minutes or even hours to reach them, and they don’t have that long.

Firmly, she grips the little sun. It burns her hand a little, but as she balls her vast hand into a fist, the star is compacted and crushed. It bursts like a grape, its core squeezing out white-hot plasma that dribbles through her fingers.

She watches as a sun dies, and with it, a solar system.

She smiles with arousal, placing a hand on her hip, as she surveys her work. Her fingers, still warm with the heart of a star, follow the in-line of her thigh, and find their place at the base of her trunk.

Among the stars, she exults.

She orgasms, crying out in jubilation, running her other hand between her breasts. Her pelvis bucks and thrusts as she ejaculates, and then she ceases all movement, gasping and sweating in the abyss.

Spreading her arms wide, she bats celestial bodies into oblivion with the backs of her hands, obliterating them as though they were bothersome mosquitoes. A million apocalypses glitter against her skin, all in service of her sex.

For some time she drifts like this, recollecting herself.

Rubbing an eye gently, she yawns. Teeth, light-minutes across, glitter in the dark.

Moments later, an aperture opens before her, one that spans almost half the length of her body. She drifts through it, and the doorway seals behind her, leaving in its wake stars cleft in twain, the liquid cores of planets oozing into the cold emptiness of space.

*

She steps out from the back of the closet and stretches. She goes to the bathroom, cleans herself off with the shower-head, then brushes her teeth.

She returns to the bedroom, brushes her hair, and pulls on a light blouse and a pair of smart check-pattern trousers.

It takes her a few minutes to adjust. She grabs her phone and flicks through emails – receipts and invoices for various deliveries, a week plan from her overbearing employer, special offers on skincare items at the beauty retailer where she has a loyalty card...

Still slightly giddy from the transition, she descends the wooden staircase, and flips the kettle on, measuring out the requisite amount of coffee. She has a long day of work ahead of her.

She’s not quite sure where the doorway came from. She discovered it one day while clearing out her wardrobe. Her initial reaction, of course, was one of fear and apprehension. At first, she thought she should probably tell somebody about it. Scientists all over the world would, in all likelihood, be amazed by the discovery. She’d go down in history as the discoverer of something that could revolutionise understanding of space and time.

But she doesn’t want to lose this, that’s the thing. She enjoys keeping this little secret. Through trial and error, she’s discovered that she can be in there for hours, but mere seconds will pass outside. She’s never pushed it far past two – she doesn’t want her colleagues to notice her ageing at a faster rate than everyone else, silly as it sounds.

So she privately enjoys these escapades she embarks on, every few days or so, before particularly stressful days at work. She never lets anyone know about it, not even her closest friends.

She felt guilty, at first, of course – ending entire worlds, disrupting the gravity of galaxies, just for a sexual rush. But as time has gone on, she’s found it easier and easier to rationalise. After all, people step on ants without realising it every day – when she is large enough to dwarf even the brightest and largest stars in a universe, surely the destruction she causes doesn’t count?

Yellow stars are her favourites, because they remind her of her own Sun, so vast and bright and hot. She has always craved to touch it. That she almost certainly never will only makes her hunger for it even more. She wants this whole universe as her playground, her dominion. Instead, she has to do menial admin work for a tech company that barely acknowledges her existence.

Anyhow, she’s fairly sure that the universe in there isn’t the same as her own. Though, she does wonder, sometimes.

The kettle finishes boiling, and she sighs resignedly, pouring hot water over the fresh grounds, and stirring it with a metal spoon.

As she opens the fridge for the milk, she spots it.

At first, she mistakes it for a floater in her eye, some microorganism casting a shadow on her retina. Then, leaning in, she regards it more closely.

There, orbiting her right index finger, is a tiny, rocky sphere, blue and green, small enough that it passes through the gap between her index and ring fingers with ease. There are even cloud patterns shifting across its surface.

It must have enjoined with her finger when she burst its sun. Now the warmth of her flesh is all that keeps it from entering an ice age.

She glances over at the counter. The warm vapour from the coffee mug exudes into the cool air of the kitchen.

Smiling, she reaches for the milk and pours it into the mug.

She will keep the little world for now. In all likelihood, its orbit will soon decay, disrupted by the movements of her fingers, probably even before she boards the train. It will explode into tiny fragments against her flesh, reduced to dust that will be brushed off without another thought.

But that’s fine. There’s plenty more where that came from, after all.

She reaches for the mug and raises it to her lips, taking a sip.

Today is going to be a good day.