Amy Lawless




My assumption is that the men I talk to are in a constant floating stasis of boredom for which I am the only

possible relief. When I walk into a room, I immediately say I’ve got all the answers. Cock my head to the side and make breathy eye contact like a real sociopath. Flex your arms—I’ll notice. You might notice my cheeks turn pink.

I say: I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, but each apology is an opportunity for me to provide new

information about the complicated world around us—but I stay vague. I’m sorry, but this room’s walls are cream silk. Soon we’ll be exploring color together. This causes my body temperature to rise a tenth of a degree. Take your hand, move some of my long brown hair behind my ear, put your face up close to whisper: somethingmeaningless in my ear.