I’m in a windowless room with a woman
who lies about her age. They told me
to do it, she coos. She starts dancing
as if there is music playing like some
sort of possessed Lolita doll. She’s
older than me and an actress, but I
feel like a volunteer mentor at a middle
school. She pauses from her watered down
hip hop moves. You have to protect me,
I’m a girlie girl, she says, even though
she is a grown woman and I am slighter
than her. She is a stereotype. She is
rainbow sprinkles and soft-core porn.
I command her to dump out the contents
of her oversized purse, in case there is
something in there that can help us.
She looks at me with wide eyes after
her tiny objects have scattered across
the floor. I’ve never heard her ask a
question. I pull a flask out of my own
purse and sigh.
Photo by Jessica Wilson
