Faux fur-lined socks, boots, hats, gloves, leggings, everything itchy—a simulacrum of warmth—traces of blush on my puffer coat collar. I’d rather dress for the prom. Lose my underwear in a field. Wear what I’d never—a crochet beret, a lace blazer, fishnets—terrify the mildest trypophobic—
“What do you see when you picture a smock?” Peter asks.
I pluck a sock hair from my mouth and answer, “My dad’s old button-down worn backwards and covered in paint.”—oh, to throw on a threadbare cotton; parachute to the sand—plunge—sometimes the last sip of coffee tastes like smoked meats.
watercolor and other by Emily Greenquist
collage by Pete Greenquist
Comments
Post a Comment