I am anywhere and I am smoking a cigarette. People are inevitable in my scenario. I look at a young woman. She is wearing a dress of popular vintage. She isn’t atypical, but she is aware that she is strung up. How do I know she’s strung up. This conversation is happening out loud with another human. Because the human is a young man I say I have no fucking idea. I know she is strung up in the way you avoid imagining someone you love dying. Because it’s more than a chance now. You haven’t heard. You spit in the thought and make it holy. It will travel. Somewhere it gets warm and thrives. I promise. I know she is strung up like a hornet in a web. I and the girl beside me are hornets. Her mother is a hornet. No one is actually the web. The web is this coffee shop and the earth beneath it down to the blank space. Some young men pretend they are the web until the spider eats her way out. She brings them a message. It states you have failed to be a man. And so have I. My dress is still a victory suit. Even though the fabric is short. Even though the war is long.