His name was Ifran and he was maybe six foot two. I wasn't in danger, but to tell the story you would think I was. I met him at the Wal-Mart snack bar; we shared a diet coke and went outside so he could smoke.

Okay, so maybe someone from work might see me there and tongues would wag. What was I doing holding hands with this tall Pakistani guy at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday? A tall Pakistani guy who pressed me up against the cement block wall with my arms pinned overhead and kissed me so hard I had to check to see if my mouth was bleeding.

Up and down the sidewalk we walked, and his mouth tasted of Tarytons, and I liked the way his hips moved and the sing song of his voice and—

We were in my car and the windows were tinted and in the back no one could see.

The commuter lot.

Where the train station is.

And it was dark.

Danger?

Maybe you can get arrested for this, I thought, but not until afterwards, and then he left.

And we had said, did you bring a condom? And we had said, no did you? And nobody had one and we did it anyway and it was an impulse and he told me about Pakistan his deaf son his brother the pilot his wife who wore a veil and was his cousin and I gave him my phone number.