The Summer of Supplemental Income
The foyer is ordinary Manhattan. Stark white everything,
with chrome. Leather couch, ash-grey.
He appears from a back room, skin potent with sandalwood
& labia. A loose kimono drapes him, barefoot.
Faux fur rug. MacBook squared to the edge of something
minimalist & made of nickel. Flowerless, arid.
His hair sinks below his shoulders; wrists thin as rake
handles. He is a jackhammer of good teeth.
I spot a girl exiting, twitchy as a runaway. She escapes beneath
a mask of hair & hoodie. Scrambling. Like prey.
He’s already nicknamed me Gingergirl, Cutie Pie, Tiny-little-thing.
Studies my feet. Measures chest, waist, hip.