So when he pulled me down into the cane fields, I sunk my teeth into his neck and tasted the salt of his sweat under the high noon, in the dirt, among the wiregrass that scratched at my bare skin, and I thought, Okay, here I am. Okay, here we are. Okay, here comes the thing my mother said I must be watchful for. Here was the dark creature, coming out, breath by long breath, pushing itself out through our wet mouths and my hands that grabbed at his hair and we rolled between the rows of sugarcane that stretched high above our heads. I was sure. I was determined. I was the girl who felt the water drip down from my chin to my neck and pool in the bowls of my collarbone, the wells of lust, the thirst of fifteen and fucking, for the first time, outside in the windless heat. He moaned and whimpered like a puppy, just a kid, trying to contain the thing but not able to keep it still. I touched his earlobe, soft and still covered in fuzz, as a trio of vultures circled over the field, marking the stink of a rotten body, a cage of ribs, a feast for the taking. He came and fell on me, in a heavy fall, until my whole self was covered with the weight of his self, and the only thing uncovered was my face still staring up above me towards the spot where the cane parted and the sky loomed in a white hot burn. He sighed, because it was over, and so it was over, and it didn’t seem so hurtful or so wrong, and as I lay there thinking of the way my mother might be wrong, to listen was good, to follow the pull of the heat could be saving, a pair of faces came and crowded my view. Two men looked over us then, spit tobacco juice from the corners of their mouths. They winked and smiled their smiles of crooked teeth and long pink gums. They loosened their belts. They said, Well, well, well.

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