Unsent Postcard: Méret Oppenheim's Fur-Covered Teacup

Dear Simona,

You explain again how the bank manager asks to pat your hair while interviewing you for a job, like you are a wilder animal than he, your hair shorn at the nape and falling in a thick new fringe across your eyes, and you wonder if your options are better if you say, Sure, but you don’t say anything and the moment passes, so later, I see a guy with that hair, and think, How can any of us be straight, which is when the woman calls me Mistah, as if that should be an insult, leaving me to consider mostly your nose, what’s called a hook, a firm angle that delights me, a profile that is yours alone, my finger running down the length, carved bump, though there’s nothing that money can’t fix and you choose, when you get the next job and have the money to spend, and sure, your nose is your business but you’re a different person now with this new profile and we haven’t had breakfast together for years even though every now and then I walk down the street where you’re living, all covered in fur, warm against memory, shivering against the winter wind, is all.