There's some kind of group therapy session with my therapist and his male therapist friends. Me and some stranger girlfriends sleep on the floor with the therapists in our pajamas, knit slips and wool socks. I'm next to my therapist. He tells me how aroused he is and I feel my stomach drop. I smile and say it's ok, we are animals, but I'm inwardly disappointed that my therapist can't control his boners.
I'm with friends from Portland who now live in New York. We're hanging out in a park at night and it feels a little wild, a little foreign like Thai outdoor food pods in Chaing Mai. I'm wearing a long wife beater and glow sticks around my neck. I feel like a whore. My friend looks at me with heated eyes. I think about walking down the street to my grandmother's house in Denver. My friend pulls me in for a kiss. It's sloppy and desperate. He tells me he loves me. I tell him I feel bad about his wife, who is also my friend, kissing him. But I would kiss and love her just the same, I say. His eyes get big. I walk away.
There's a restaurant I'm working at, it's a blend of places I've worked along with a roller skating rink. Bootcamp too. I'm here with bootcamp classmates. There are piles of roasted yams we can heave over our shoulders. The yams are smooshy and fall apart as I try to left them. We all decide we've lifted enough and leave.
I'm in a large house that's a little like a photo shoot set in the way things sit on shelves. Kids bounce around everywhere as we film them, they are crossing over between model kids and Beckett and her friends. My friend is there, wrestling the kids, wrangling them to behave. He's good with them. There's a baby monkey sleeping next to one of the girls in a pilot cap. The content producer splices all scenes together for public television.
