At fifteen, my chest was a minaret calling men to worship; fire burnt from the pit of my stomach, hot coals and I forgot her words— Educated girls fetch bigger dowry, Uneducated is an oppressed wife But stay in school long enough; the market is cruel to you.

Between her legs, she was patchouli: earthy and musky smell,           sweet yet smoky, a balance of sweetness and romance—           and for the rest of the night, I tasted her tanginess.

That night, I met my partner in crime, my confidant. Sharon had seen through my fakeness and called me to it. When we drank all her two six-packs of Guarana, she didn’t complain. When I French-kissed her, she blamed it on the alcohol.