There's a line to get into work next to a gift shop in NYC. They sell books and paperweights, pens and scarves. My boss is with me, a coworker too. He wears glasses and a salesman who also wears glasses asks if he needs to count four times because of his four eyes. No one thinks this is funny. The salesman turns on a nature video for us while we wait in line. The tv is boxy and old.
Windows open inside a Victorian-era hotel in Fraser. I am with an ex-boyfriend from high school and some other people from my past, mostly boys who've been victims of the system. The hotel is a suite and feels like a house. People come in and out for a cocktail party I'm throwing. Miss Universe from the 90's is there with her baby. She's beautiful, but she's missing an arm and walks with a limp. Her baby looks exactly like her. The suite clears out, but I sense someone is still inside with me. I walk around picking things up, afraid that my ex-boyfriend may try to grab me from behind. He's older now, instead of punk rock t-shirts and a shaved head, he wears glasses and a cardigan. He's creepy. I have to go to work. I'm a news anchor alongside my boss. She does her segment and walks towards me through a dusty room filled with furniture covered in white sheets. She's visibly tired. Her usual red lips are bare. I'm afraid for her to sleep here. If she hides under the sheets they won't find her. The predators are everywhere. I feel them. We can't fall asleep without first hiding our bodies. I think of my ex-boyfriend's poorly constructed sentences from the prison letters he's sent me. I feel sorry for him, that he can't communicate the way he needs to. I want him to find me here in this pile of sheets and at the same time, I'm terrified he will find me here. The alarm goes off. Get up my boss says, it's your turn to be on the show.
The actor from The Danish Girl is at a community center pool, which is also an airport. Maybe we are in California. I'm swimming and my friend and former paramour dives into the pool, hands me a letter, it's typed on an old Italian typewriter, an Olivetti. He smoothes the hair over my forehead, kisses my brow. I miss him as he swims away. The actor sits in a lounge chair. I put my hand on his cheek, tell him I prefer to see him dressed up as a girl. He blushes, bows his head.
I'm in Florida with my boxing trainer. There's a boot camp class on the beach. Demi Moore is one of the students. She has a thick Cuban accent and corn rows. Everyone is the class is excited by her presence. I tell them all not to get too carried away by fame. My trainer hugs me. He's proud of my recovery and squeezes my shoulders. I can tell he wants to fuck.
