Support Thomm on Patreon

I press myself against the narrow staircase as a young woman, eighteen at her oldest, tries to negotiate the lumpen bag in her arms. Her burden must weigh as much as she does. I can be generous with my time. I have gravity on my side and an armful of shoes I can put on the floor until she passes.

She wears an elastic robin's egg tube top and a fluffy white skirt; not what one wears Moving into an apartment for one's first year at Boston University, but she has time to learn the necessities of jeans and t-shirts one doesn't mind absorbing sweat and dust.

I am madly jealous of her for this innocence, for having never had the experience of conspicuous perspiration to teach her the value of a change of clothes and that one need not be constantly pretty.
Keep reading...