The door was open and Plainfield was busy that day
It sat there, propped against the wall and I wondered if it felt embarrassed with all of the eyes
A few artists names just fell out of her mouth
like cuss words might on a sailor
Like artist names might from a curator
It didn’t bother me
Because I knew all of their names well
And felt quite professional being compared to them
Her hair was flipping out everywhere, a section shaved underneath and her hands were dirty
But it didn’t matter
Because she saw it
—What I was saying
HOW DO YOU DO IT? how do you write a scene so accurately and acutely i am immediately transformed there.
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