Free Chimpanzee by Darin Bradley

half-abandoned commercial borough. I think about why people don’t turn their essays in on time.
    Her essay lies on the concrete. She has written it upon the skin of a young man her age with a black marker. He lies limp against an un-refurbished Art Deco brick foundation. He wears only a pair of black shorts like a dark flag against his pale, hairless skin.
    He doesn’t move. There is a wheatpaste poster of a chimpanzee slathered onto the bricks above him.
    â€œAmong other things?” I say.
    â€œI also needed to create a proposal,” Zoe says. “The introductory essay was perfect.”
    His forehead reads ‘Everything begins by making your audience pay attention.’
    â€œWhat is this proposing?” I say.
    She shrugs and lights a cigarette. I motion for one, and she hands it over. I look both ways down the alley.
    â€œAre you going to read it?”
    I am her teacher.
    â€œOf course I am,” I say. He doesn’t look like he’s breathing.
    I ignore my phone when it vibrates in my pocket.
    â€œDid I get your attention, Dr. Cade?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo I’m doing well?”
    â€œDo you think I’m creating the meaning you intended?” I say.
    She looks at him. “I don’t know.”
    â€œDo you think I’m stacking images and unpacking ideas just the way you did, communicating this to yourself?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œBut Zoe.” I touch her shoulder, and she plants her student’s gaze back on me. It’s different. “I’m paying attention.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    S IREEN AND I GO ON A HOME PRE-POSSESSION TOUR . I T’S sponsored by the realtor’s office, downtown, with which we have decided to do business. The tour is free, and it includes coffee, croissants, and informative guidebooks with glossy printed photo sheets and professional copy, perfect bound.
    At 7:30 AM , we file into a chartered tour bus. Air-conditioned, pneumatic brakes. It rides like a Cadillac. I let Sireen have the window seat. I prefer the aisle, where I can see a hand-made chimpanzee decal stuck to the footboard. The board’s rubber ridges have worn free of the sticker—it only exists in the troughs between. A poor-resolution printout from some nature magazine.
    Because the tour is full, the bus drives through downtown. The guide describes prominent buildings, explains the architecture. Our town was spared Civil War damage because it is tucked away in the tail-end of the Appalachians. The town went bankrupt later, Art Deco poor, and spent eighty years paying its debts rather than filing for relief. The town lacked money for too long to build anything newer—now, the architecture is culture. Identity. The last seven sitting presidents have all vacationed in its most historic hotel. Enjoyed its hillside golf. Its distant Smoky Mountains.
    We skip dangerous parts of town, maneuvering through boroughs. Our first stop is a recently renovated ’20s-era bungalow. Its owners defaulted on their home improvement loan, so it is now in short sale. They are fourth-generation owners.
    â€œAre you excited?” Sireen says. She is wearing a sundress today—a rarity. Her position as a professor is better suited to pants. She smiles. The hair on the right side of her forehead moves in the shaft of tubed air blowing from the conical twist-vent overhead. Her hair is down today.
    I smile back. The fabric of her dress is thin between my palm and her thigh. It is pale against her skin. The next few days on her ovulation calendar are important. She told me before we left. It thrums her, every time, even if it hasn’t worked yet, and I can see it in everything she does. The statistics and calculation of it.
    â€œYes.”
    I am.
    Every home on this tour is either in short sale or has been foreclosed upon. Our realtor is only one branch of a national franchise. It offers signed affidavits