stained sheets

My throat clenches.

The air is thick with the smell of cheap aftershave and sweat and week old bong water. It is hard to see: the afternoon sun is kept at bay by dusty blinds. The only source of light is the pulsing illumination of the television. The movie is muted and I hear the ragged edges of my breath.

I perch precariously on the edge of his single bed; it seems safe enough. He joins me and places a hand on my inner thigh. I shuffle awkwardly and pull at the hem of my skirt. My nail polish is pastel pink, chipped. He is the sweet but, sweaty boy that sits behind me in English.

We are friendly, but not friends.

He is loud and popular. I am not.

He is confident. I am not.

Leaning in, he kisses me. He tastes unmistakably of choc milk. A big tongue explores my mouth. Hands probe beneath my school shirt and grab at my adolescent breasts. Hesitating to asks me if I’m sure, if I want to do this. I don’t know what this is - not really. My knowledge is limited to that of movies and smutty books surreptitiously borrowed from the library.

I wish I could tell her to say no, not yet, not now, not with him. It’s a trivial regret, small in the scheme of a long life, but one I hold close. On that bed, on that quiet suburban afternoon, I left my girlhood behind.