'Green' by Patricia Quintana Bidar

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.