sunny and 75 in early march, air clinging to my skin like unrinsed soap; talk of spring and hidden eggs and an early morning, snow unmelted, driving through the course threads of trees lining the road to boston. i go downstairs and drink something lemony, champagney. i go downstairs and have to claw my way to respect from a man who seats himself next to me, patchy beard and beady eyes, telling me exactly what i’m worth with the dip of his eyes, tilt of his mouth.