She had felt, for the first time, what it meant to become a woman in the very specific way that required another person's participation.
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
She focused on the island growing on the horizon.
'He's probably not even there', she told herself.
The telling didn't help.
Celia looked at the sketch.
She was the only one of the three who hadn't.
And that was the specific, particular, edge-of-a-paper-cut quality of it — she had sat three feet away from it happening, listening, becoming wet with her hand pressed to her own mouth, silently furious at her own body for caring while a man she'd barely met made her friend moan into a pillow on the other side of a blanket.
She had lain there rigid with the pheromones in the air and told herself she didn't want him.
She had pushed him away.
