My
new housemate Clementine worked at a sex line. Our Haight-Ashbury
Victorian had once
been
the site of seances, she said. This was new life, completely
different from the one I’d
left
behind. A fresh start.
I
had a little money saved from an ill-fated caregiver position. Should
I be found, I’d be in
serious
trouble. If legal proceedings-related mail arrived, I’d need to
intercept it.
At
night, I’d enter Clementine’s lair. The air was thick with
Shalimar and peppery sex. Feather
boas
and jeweled masks adorned the surfaces. I’d try on the leather
corset that had cradled Clementine’s
breasts,
the curve of her ribs.
I
needed money.
She
said she recommend me at the sex line. Good. I was scared in the
silent apartment at night.
On
one side of a room divider sat the psychics. On the other were the
sex operators. There were lollipops in baskets. The clients got off
on the sound. I kept forgetting myself and chewing mine, spoiling the
effect.
I
spent breaks chatting with the head psychic, Absinthe. This frosted
Clementine’s cookies. She’d criticize Absinthe’s home manicures
and thick thighs. “She had a son; she lost custody,” Clementine
said, malice in her eyes.
“Clementine?
Our parents haven’t forgiven her for abandoning them,” Absinthe
purred over her
Dragon
Roll. Absinthe herself drove to San Bruno each night to iron their
stepfather’s shirt.
Sisters.
Absinthe
made her green-outlined eyes thoughtful, swiping her ginger across
the wasabi. “So, let’s say I’m hiring. What do you see?”
I
quieted my mind. “A blonde boy. Somewhere beachy. He’s super
happy,” I added.
“You’re
hired,” Absinthe breathed.
Clementine
beat me home. When I arrived, my belongings were stacked outside our
door. Atop the pile sat letters from a law office, the court.
---
First published in South Florida Poetry Journal November 2021.
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