Sometimes your sheets are just too rough and tangly. You can’t get comfortable. You toss and turn. The room is a degree too warm. That’s Ivanka.
Sometimes you reach into your pocket and your fingernail snags on the cloth and you yowl in pain. That’s Ivanka Trump.
Sometimes your chicken won’t cook. It’s pink and it’s pink and it’s pink and it’s too full of juice and pink and wet and won’t. ever. cook. Then within two seconds it’s charred. That’s Ivanka.
Sometimes you try on a new shirt, and it fits, and you look good in the mirror, and then you take it home and realize you can never, ever been seen in public wearing it. And over your shoulder, smiling: that’s Ivanka Trump.
Sometimes your scarf snags. On everything. Even folded cloth. Even your skin. You yank it off to examine it, and when you lower it: there’s Ivanka.
Sometimes your kid won’t stop crying. You sing to them. You put on a cartoon. You give them toys. Nothing works. You want to cry. Standing pressed against the window, avidly listening: that’s Ivanka Trump.
Sometimes at brunch your mimosa is too acid. It spills every time you take a drink. You get sticky and sour-smelling. You go to the restroom to clean up. The stall door opens silently: that’s Ivanka.
Sometimes you find a pair of shoes: soft, fitting perfectly, reasonably priced. You put them on. And they won’t come off. You struggle and struggle until you’re crying in frustration. And a set of fingers dries your tears: that’s Ivanka Trump.
Sometimes you can’t find your kid. Was it even yours? Maybe a nephew or niece? Were you just babysitting? The park is so busy and hot; maybe you just thought—
A floral shape flits into the bushes. That’s Ivanka.
A floral shape flits into the bushes. That’s Ivanka.
Sometimes you go home from the park, feeling like you’re missing something. What are all these toys? That blanket with the bears? Those aren’t yours. You throw them in a box and put them on the curb. An hour later you go out and rummaging through them: that’s Ivanka Trump.
Sometimes you walk out of the house, empty even of memories. The city is just a system of lights in the fog. You can hear a ship’s horn in the bay. You turn down the street toward it. And in an alley, combing her hair, watching the reflections in a puddle, waiting: that’s Ivanka.
Sometimes you stand for hours beside your kid, both of you motionless. People pass outside the window, looking at you now & then, admiring the clothes you’re wearing, and moving on. The store closes. An employee dusts you. And by the escalator, eyes gleaming: that’s Ivanka Trump.
