I walk towards a dilapidated warehouse that’s all brick with broken glass,
Gripping the crumpled paper in my hand, my nail polish leaving
Red marks between ads for SMW and lemons. I had stolen it from
That damned man who rents upstairs—The one who doesn’t bathe and wakes
me up when he masturbates. My thumb is rubbing the ad until
I am sure it’s just blurred, black ink. “Fashion Models Needed, Ages 15-30,
No Experience Needed” it supposed to say and below it a promise for $20.
The inside is hot and sticky like a little kid’s palms.
I notice the cracked radio in the corner first, blasting MJ through
One speaker, then the girls—sitting in folding chairs stiff and pale
As paper dolls. The beach ball and fake sand tells me this is a summer
Shoot and a man with swarthy face and amateur camera swinging around
His neck turns head from a blonde in a skimpy two piece and looks at me.
“Charles, grab her suit.” “Me?” I say out loud but he doesn’t reply,
Instead Charles thrusts a yellow one-piece in my hands. It’s the color of a
Butter stick and sparkly. I notice the sequins which are beginning to fall off,
The tear on the left shoulder and my face grows hot.
Recent Comments