A stray flier for roof repairs sent me crashing into concrete — and my husband into an almost affair.
Our connection began behind masks, with eyes only, and grew so deep so fast that I began to dread a return to normal here in Shanghai.
I had barely seen my brother in decades, but when time was short, he let me in.
While I was living in the basement of my university’s library, he watched me sleep. Then he left a note in my shoe.
What a terrifying relief it was to have to tell the truth about everything.
As a single, 27-year-old Muslim woman, I had never experienced physical intimacy, not even a kiss. And as a television writer, I needed more experiences to draw from.
Maybe mine?
At 18, I didn’t want to be the captain of my own fate. Fourteen years later, I do, and am.
For $100, could I stop flirting with men when my mother was around? And could she stop talking about my brush with mortality?
First we agree to stop seeing each other. Then we pretend we never had that conversation.