and I’m early. I can’t remember her name. Theresa. Same name as a close friend in Kentucky, a Taurus I boiled oxtails with who is finally letting herself fall mutually in love with my brother. Maybe that’s why I keep forgetting — the name already full of her broken femur & self-lauding of Molly Queen, of her unbelievable ability to listen. I worry she can’t feel this love when we talk about anything else. I worry that when I keep the closest moments of all people in my head, that they are reading my mind & doubting my ability to understand them. Because I’m thinking too often about our backs curled the same way & his hands, same size as mine, kneading the back of my neck, or about the lesbian couple, one going down on me while the other watches, her face close to mine, & how her dad is only lucid some days now, & I should always think of that instead. This is how I live out love through fear of failure. And when I spread it out before me, it’s only the two of swords I see. No cups, no lovers, just her arms crossed in front of her, swords raised — poised to cut from two sides. If I am caring, am I caring the right way? Is there some amount of goodness I chase to fill the well only I fit inside? I don’t mean to mention the subway, but sometimes I have to meditate just so I’ll stop ogling every wall st asshole’s shoes. Oxfords. Brown boats, little strings. My mom got me two pairs of men’s shoes before I moved & I thought she’d finally understood something. She did. On the phone she’ll say, I get sick now whenever I see that, about gender appearing on any documents This week I entered the kitchen to work with the men. I learned the easiest way to cut a shallot & the hardest thing to learn about cooking is that it is a foreign language chef said two times. Oui, this speaking with my hands gets harder every time. I’m on my way to my doppelganger’s birthday party, & in the Lyft we pass a neon pizza sign & pizza smell fills the car, & I think of the old walk from university to home past a tomato sauce factory, & how it always smelled like hot tomatoes. I don’t know yet what I will do, but I want to do something worth telling you about. So I am sure I will. I don’t know yet that no one at the party smokes, that a closeted girl from Baltimore will tell a story about a silicon baking sheet melting, about to catch, or that I will, while lighting a cigarette, catch my hair on fire. Theresa, my doppelganger, I met at a bar. I walked up to her & said, Sorry if this is weird, but we look exactly the same. At the restaurant, there is a server who in the summer I dressed almost exactly like. I mean, we were already dressing like each other — semicasual men’s pants, patterned button-ups. But I button top button always, but sometimes I wear tights under my shorts, but sometimes I am so afraid of misperception I’d rather be called baby in some bartender’s bed, & I hate to bring up New York again, but I didn’t leave my life to start it right back over. When I walk in public, I look into the soles of the oxfords, saying, sorry if this is weird, but we look exactly the same. The two of swords is angling her swords over a bird not yet in frame or an approaching enemy or her own neck. Or at nothing at all, & even if she knows so, I might slice.