I could tell she was Dominican. At first that’s why I stared. I was placing her skin tone against
those of my family and imagining what her lose curls would look like if straighten. I could tell
that straight is how she usually wore it since her hair is being weighed down by product. She
doesn’t have a routine and just wings it when she feels spontaneous enough to let her hair air-
dry. She looks like she can speak Spanish. Her mouth made sharp shapes, each word with an
angle. Americans round out their sounds waiting for you jump in turning everything into a
question or a joke, your response expected immediately, their words can’t stand alone. With us
it’s the opposite. Everything is a statement, rhetorical, a stone. I wondered if she was strong. If
she was aggressive or if her hands had grit, if she held me would I feel safe enough to cum.

I could tell she was gay by her shorts. They were ugly blue tailored shorts, but her thighs
plumped out of them as she sat. Her t-shirt was loose on her but not tucked in or slipping off the
shoulder so all together she gave the impression that she didn’t care much about aesthetics
preferring convenience and comfort. This is a straight bar but most places in the village are
queer-coded. The lights are pink, the walls are covered in green velvet and peonies, the bartender
is wearing pins. She seemed most interested in what the buzz-cut to her left had to say, they kept
physical contact either by clapping their hands together or holding onto the other’s forearm as if
unsteady. My classmates and I are just getting to know each other, they are older and nice. One
of them offered to put their card down and just send a receipt later.

Sex with boys is bad. They fantasize about hard thrusts and naturally wet walls. They expect the
body to want it. I convince mine to allow it to happen. Sex with women could be good. I imagine
her standing over me.

When she looks over to me, I hope that she’s curious. She takes in my color—brown arms and
pink cheeks, maybe I look like her sister. What would it be like to tell her exactly what I want?
I’d finger her palm and let her study me. Our dark arm hair rising at the contact. Sticky brown lip
gloss. In school there weren’t many opportunities to crush on anyone who wasn’t white. Even
the few Latinos I met where pale-skinned with flowery accents. But what would it be like to kiss
a girl like us? Has she done this experiment before? Could I modify my techniques to fit this new
venue?

She’s in front of me now, do I want to step outside with her? Yes. I finish the drink and she nods
at the bartender before taking my hand, soft.

Rosannie Then (she/they) is a Dominican-American and native New Yorker. She recently earned her MFA in creative nonfiction from NYU and received her BA from The New School. This is her first publication.