Page 1 of All Our Nevers

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Lia

I f your vagina was a flower, what kind of flower would it be?”

I’ve been asked a lot of horrendous questions at influencer events before, but this one is uniquely abhorrent.

I grapple my social media smile into place as I reply, “Probably the one from Little Shop of Horrors. The teeth really resonate.”

The interviewer tilts her head, brows creasing like she’s not sure if my answer is earnest or cutting or just too artsy for her. She looks like a high schooler. My God… is she a high schooler?

“Oh, um, okay,” she says. “And what made you want to participate in today’s Floral Feminism event?”

My real answer: I did not want to participate in today’s Floral Feminism event. I think the concept of a Floral Feminism event is excruciating and would rather be at home plucking out each of my eyelashes one-by-one. But this shit pays two hundred dollars for attendance plus a post, and mama’s gotta make rent and Archie needs dog treats, so here we are.

But instead of saying any of that, I answer, “Well, as my followers know, all of my art is created through a feminist lens. And while I may not be a florist, fiber arts are also a historically female practice, which means they’ve been devalued for generations, and I love pairing the explicitly feminine medium with subject matter like femme portraits and liberation quotes to draw attention to issues of modern-day gender politics.”

And with that… I’ve lost her.

“Great. And if your boyfriend could only bring you one kind of flower for the rest of your life, what kind would you have him bring?”

I glance sideways at Sophie, who looks like she’s in pain from her stifled laughter, then upward, begging the white peonies overhead for patience. Eventually I manage to say, “Well, I’m single right now, but if I weren’t, I would have my girlfriend bring me orchids, because they last a long time and aren’t as hard to take care of as people think.”

I put the slightest emphasis on girlfriend because I’m not in a generous mood and shame is a powerful tool.

Then, having thoroughly embarrassed this young idiot with my gayness (really bi-ness, but she doesn’t need to know the details), I’m off. I say “Thanks so much for your time” as I turn on the heel of my favorite red slingbacks and drag Sophie through the glass doorway of Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art.

“Oh! Yeah, of course, yeah,” the interviewer flounders. “Thanks to you—I mean, thank you, too, as well.”

Her voice is quickly muffled by the crowd. It’s all sort of pitiful, and I don’t feel bad at all.

Only once we’re out of earshot does Sophie let her control snap, bursting into laughter and collapsing against my arm.

“Stopppp,” I whine, but really, I’m right there with her.

She’s doubled over, steps staggering, breaths wheezing as we walk into the ICA’s main lobby.

“But Lia, if I hadn’t come today, I never would’ve known what kind of flower your vagina is! Ten years of friendship and you think you know someone...”

“Shut up.” I knock her sideways, but not far enough to break the place where our arms are linked.

Sophie is my best friend. Technically one of three, the others in our little group being my brother Nolan and Sophie’s fiancé Andy, but everyone knows she’s my number one.

“Why are we even here?” she asks when her breathing returns to normal. “You look miserable. Are they paying you that well?”

The balance in my bank account flashes before my eyes. No matter how carefully I plan my budget each month—and believe me, I do—it feels like a flimsy life raft in the middle of the ocean. My influencer revenue hits in erratic crests and troughs, with any profits from my art serving as little more than a trickle of rain that can’t quite rise the tide in my favor.

In short: I’m broke.

“Believe me,” I say, “I wish I didn’t have to be here. But I have to do at least one influencer event every month.”

“Why do you have to do that many?”

“Because,” I say—a non-answer. She side-eyes me until I add, “Because it’s in my plan for the year, okay? There’s no point in making goals and a schedule and a monthly budget if you’re not going to stick to it.”

“No, yeah, okay, I get that,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was questioning your judgement. I just want you to pursue the things that make you happy.”

She says it like it’s that simple. And, God bless her, maybe she really thinks it is.