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A woman whose last name isn’t actually Fox slid through the door with wildflower stems fresh cut from her garden. Her voice reaches me as if her head is always turned away.

Thighs cinched as a wrist, her boyfriend was a piano man. She undresses plastic women, and bakes chocolate chip cookies from October to April, storing them in antique tins.

He shuffles through repetitious facts when he’s nervous, has been on too many first dates to stumble around talking about himself, and sweats v-shaped speckles across his shirts. Stories float from his tongue, and he buys land in the forest so he’ll never be homeless.

A man, describing himself as volatile in frustration, with a friend who cusses out his phone on the street. He “didn’t make a lot of money” in the last decade, so he’s got two left feet walking towards a stack of rags to wipe disappointment off his forehead.

Two heroin addicts: I never know if one is sarcastic or serious. The other, a rockstar who beat cancer and drives vehicles laced with lead.

Cheekbones high and wide, she’s shy to shit in public restrooms. Her voice is honey, ginger infused water in the glasses ordered often.

A woman walks across the plaza in nothing less than a silk suit and ties tongues with her partner in front of closed doors. Her eyes never leave a face until the conversation is seen through.

Her ribs are square with corners protruding from her chest. Tight wrinkles line her lip corners when she smiles. Photos of her are just as beautiful as the unmade woman who wakes before dawn to nibble espresso beans for breakfast.