GPS says there’s a Duane Reade a mile from Chinatown. It’s 96 degrees on a Saturday. My chest is wet, my legs are wet. Sweat seeps my contact lenses. I’m coming for you. The taxi driver is West African. You are my sister. I’m changing in the back seat, my bra, my shirt, while he keeps his eyes on the Lincoln Tunnel and his thoughts on women being slaves to their men. I stare at his name and badge number and wonder what his wife in Africa looks like. I really wanted to know what his American woman looks like. A lot of time passes and I think about my old West African and feel bad for being so American. Be more like your father’s side; he’s so involved we get lost. I get to you. My hair the size of my hips. I tell you awkwardly I like your t-shirt. You say it’s just a grey t-shirt. You kiss the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only the sun has come this close, only the sun.

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