Justine Quammie Bassomb
Her hair levitates like black satin and soy sauce and she bounds into the room on her ballpoint spindles. She picks at the floor with toes, jukebox needles on energizers, and she moves with kinetic flourish. Speed doesn’t know fast compared to her skirt’s relationship with the floor or her body’s bond with her partner. She can do what she likes: jump on his back, nibble his nose even crush the big feet of flirty competition, and she would still be loved with her torpedo turbulence.