They watch your hands as you try to unlock the box. The key is delicate, teeth threatening to bend. You lose focus for a moment, and it falls through your palm. Your knuckles briefly dip through the surface of the table as you snatch it back up. The coachman's eyes are steady, as if nothing's happened. His young assistant has turned to the window, intent as if that mudded landscape could still hold any interest for him after their trip up.
A game, possibly best suited to other women with a diminished but extant interest in men:
1. Remember the last at least mildly famous man you were attracted to, and do an image search.
2. Ask whether the 1st resulting image of them shows any hint of what drew you. If not, consider the 2nd, the 3rd, etc.
3. Write down the number at which you answer affirmatively, if any, and stare at it as you'd stare at an untidy circle of blood & feathers on the snow outside your home.
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
Mostly within 30 miles of Philadelphia, but not because of a curse or anything.
Une instance se voulant accueillante pour les personnes queers, féministes et anarchistes ainsi que pour leurs sympathisant·e·s. Nous sommes principalement francophones, mais vous êtes les bienvenu·e·s quelque soit votre langue.