During foreplay, one of them heard the neighbors––the athletic young Russian couple perhaps?––also indulging, the bed frame crying, murmurs leaking through the barely-there wall between the two apartments. Listening, she took comfort, giggled into the other woman’s ear. It was such a normalizing realization. Like those summer days when she would walk past a large apartment building and look up to find each unit’s windows thrust open, all the different fans––floor, ceiling, window––manipulating every home’s shadows like chocolate cake batter, blades oscillating towards the same goal: human relief. Everyone has a fan. Everyone presses a button.
Sarah Fonseca: A Southern state expatriate, Sarah Fonseca lives in Brooklyn, New York. She is currently at work on two nonfiction chapbooks: one about queer rural transiency, the other on impostresses (both personally and historically known). To read more, visit sarah-fonseca.tumblr.com.