By Chrys Tobey

I could tell her about my yoga teacher, Roger, who wears the cutest shorts,
which I overheard him say were tailored, or when I was five, there was

the dad, I think his name was Roger, of my neighbor I’d play house with until
my mom caught us humping. But really, I could give her a long list of Rogers—

Roger who never reciprocated my love when I was fifteen. Roger who, on our second
date, burped all of “SexyBack.” Roger who stole my money so he could buy me underwear.

There was Roger with the engagement ring that he threw at my head. There was
Roger with his fondness for spanking. Roger with his missing tooth. Roger with his

fake front tooth. One Roger told me, You’re not really a feminist. Another Roger asked,
Are you really a feminist? And Roger from New York who said, You don’t seem bitter

enough to be a feminist. I could tell her about all the pretty Rogers. The first
Roger I married. Or the second Roger. I could tell her about the Rogers I don’t want

to remember—the ones that taught me I should only live on a second floor.
When she asks me, Who is Roger?—because in a text I wrote, Roger; because she is new

to the U.S.—I smile and tell her about truckers and lingo and don’t tell her how when
I see the small scar on her nose, all the Rogers peel away like dead skin.