with it she’d wear leg warmers, T-shirts, neon netted
gloves,
the kind of style that has you and your
colleagues raising eyebrows, Ava.
It’s different to be fair…
You lot with your blazers and your patent
heels, Ava,
I would stamp on you,
I really would…
Her boyfriend called her Molly Antoinette.
He was around a lot.
Tall and lean. Face aloof – vaguely angelic. From money
but hid it pretty well, though occasionally he used his
Latin.
Equo ne credite, Ava.
We were all impressed by him for two reasons:
First:
he made his own trousers. Rough
patchworks of silk, low-slung. When he stretched his
arms up – which he did a lot – you saw his lower
abdomen, sometimes a little fuzz – not quite the top of
his dick but it was definitely there…
and second:
he had a criminal record for throwing stew –
specifically cassoulet – at a pro-life protester near a
clinic.
His social media bio had a little emoji of a fist.
We thanked him for his service.
Molly made art about what she called,
radical partying.
For her first ‘group crit’ she gave each person in
the class a card that read:
You’re cordially invited to my consciousness party
and had them sit in silence for
her presentation time.
In the feedback part, the tutor was apoplectic,
could hardly get her words out –
It’s… lazy! It’s… lame!
It’s lazy and lame!
Molly was unfazed.
