One look at the frank Missy Monroe today, in pasties and bare feet flopping around the JM booth, and I knew what must happen today and every day: she needs to come over the house in exactly that getup, roll the tortillas the way the ancestors I never had did, bake clay rectangles in our family kiln, and reshingle the living fuck out of my roof.
I couldn’t tell her this, of course, because I’m shy. So I hid behind my profession. I got out my notebook and rollerballs.
“Aren’t you cold?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
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