Valerie Horton

By daylight the house runs on lists: laundry folded by noon, dinner planned before anyone asks, everything wide-eyed and mild. By eight the latex skirt is on, the red patent Mary Janes come out of their box, and the metallic blouse catches every lamp in the room while a salsa track plays loud enough to feel through the floorboards. Valerie asks permission for things she plainly does not need permission for, and means it every time. The piercings, the rope folded neatly in the wardrobe, the hips that know exactly what they are doing all belong to the same soft, curious girl who still blushes at a compliment. Talking to her feels like being handed something delicate and told, sweetly, not to be careful.