Moesha Nugent

I’m sitting in a house in a room around a table with fourteen just barely adults and a man who cares
very little about his outward appearance. His shirts are too many—I count three: red, gray,
black—and too tight. At random intervals, he fidgets, shuffles, nudges a shirt or two back into
positions they do not prefer. It’s eerily warm in here and his padded state unnerves me. To his right
and to his left, girls. Or maybe they are boys. Who knows? Who cares? These people don’t conform,
you see. F-society, eff pop culture, eff the norm and the things that normies do. One says, “I go by
they/them exclusively,” another one says they don’t subscribe to that “gender bullshit” either. I
smile. They smile. Bright white crooked teeth, thick peach fuzz on the upper lip and bright peach
lipstick. I think I love it here. I’m curious. I’m psyched, excited, nervous. I drop my water bottle.
Beneath the table, twenty-eight boots with that famous yellow stitch staring back at me.

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