Two Dutch braids, tight from the forehead.

8 AM. The heat was already heavy.

I handed over the papers.

“Congratulations,” the clerk said. “You are enrolled.”

Master’s in Political Science.

I was ready to negotiate with terrorists. Or at least my boyfriend.

8:05. I walked out. I called him.

He was asleep.

“Come over,” he said. His voice was thick. “But we’re out of condoms. Buy some?”

“Okay.”

Pharmacy at the bus stop. Three people ahead.

An old woman, confused. A man in a suit. A guy my age.

The line stalled. The old woman argued.

The guy turned.

“Nobody’s in a rush here, right?”

He winked.

I was nervous. I just wanted to get to my boyfriend. But I smiled.

Yellow Lacoste polo. Thrift store find, price of a coffee. It matched the gold in my hair.

The old woman didn’t stop.

“I’m getting beer and pills,” the guy said. “Going to the yard to fade out. Want to come?”

I don’t know how he read the vibe.

“No thanks,” I said. “Other plans.”

The woman left. The suit paid fast.

The guy ordered a pack of Trigan-D.

“You sure you have things to do this early?” he asked. “Time enough to get high.”

“I’m sure.”

I ordered Durex Elite. The twelve-pack.

He paused.

The look changed. Not admiration. Respect.

“Ah,” he said. “Those plans. I get it. I’m going then.”

“Bye,” I said. “Have a good one.”

We walked out together.

I got on the minibus. I watched him go.

He walked toward the yard. I knew that yard. I had drunk there many times.

He went to get lost.

I went to a man who wouldn’t even brush his teeth for me.