He faltered for a moment. I knew to lean forward and hang on to the back of his headrest like we were about to crash, like I had seen women on television and in the movies do. I let him feel my sour breath so it could make him think of a morning after. He had hardened into a blank face, much too stiff and strained to not give way.

“How old is you, girl?” he asked softly, the shame already evident in his eyes.

“Old enough,” I answered. “You ain’t gotta worry. I do this all the time. It’s no big deal. You ain’t gotta worry.”

He was thinking about it.

“Shit… What you want? From me? With me …?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I don’t know what I want. I mean, I do, but…”

“But what?”

“I mean, I’m married. I’m a deacon … I gotta wife.”

“I know. But that don’t make it impossible.”

“Yeah, but it don’t make it right either.”

I wasn’t going to beg, so I let the headrest go. Aunt Jewel had always cautioned me to exercise restraint with any man, that the best way to keep them interested was to act as if you weren’t. Falling back was just what I needed to do for him to come to me.

“Well, I mean … what you want? What I gotta give you?”

I didn’t have to think twice about it.

“Shit, you can gimme all you got.”