In the courtyard, Amara rolled a cigar between her thumb and forefinger, brought it to her lips, and pulled in a mouth full of thick smoke. She blew it out slowly, parting her lips, closing them, kissing the air with plumes of smoke. She drew her finger through the wispy gray and licked her lips. She felt that familiar warmth between her legs and a pulsing swell. As cliché as it was, Amara couldn’t help but think about the phallic nature of the cigar between her lips. The word “Menâ€? seemed to be burnt under her eye lids, every time she blinked, she saw another cock, another set of big ruff hands, another five o’clock shadow.

She looked up at a little piece of American sky, four feet by eight. There was one star in it, or maybe a satellite, she couldn’t tell. At home the sky is big, her Mother always says it’s like a blue bowl was turned upside down and dropped onto the earth. Here the sky is cut up and portioned out like God was trying to be fair, let everyone have their own little piece of the sky.