All’s a boil in the cooking space between counters on a July night. The oil boils up to leave a scent in the hair of a young brown hair floozy spending nights at the frier and days painting on an academic’s face, speaking of art in a museum space mostly silent, just her voice. Her fingers have black grease smeared into the crevice of her prints and pretty warm red on the nail beds. Just close enough, she still retains the hot oil on her body from the night before. Her apartment is a short walk across the street where often times some people find a couch to sleep off the night while she warms some late night meal to take out on the second floor balcony to watch the trees sway in the endless breeze. Creamy sweat runs through her hairnet in the hot stifling kitchen and boys she knows drop by the pickup window to get hooked up with grub. The hot brown hair floozy ignores their taunts as their nice manner of speak turns in a short time. She watches the exhibition, clothes clinging to sweat and oil on her body, like zinc on iron.