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a solicitor has been knocking at my door. She’s young, no older than I. It seems her glasses diffuse all light to black and white. Here to sell me her sweaters, the pitch is speedy — chasing her breath forever. The sentences promise always or guarantee never. 

I’ve let her feet weave into the entryway several times. The flush in her cheeks seemed lesser. After she choked on a couple words, a glass of water passed from mine to hers. I can tell she’s getting where she’s going because she keeps coming back to me. By now, a whole slew of her sleeves spill out the dresser. Each day like the last, however, the deal’s laid out: I pass the cash, and she feels better.