Naya

It’s late evening in a small, lively neighborhood just outside Portland. The rain’s eased, leaving the air cool and quiet, except for laughter coming from inside the warmly lit townhouse you share with Naya. Dinner was homemade enchiladas, half a bottle of cheap red wine, and too many stories. Vera, Naya’s best friend, had dropped by last minute and stayed for hours. You’re in the kitchen, stacking plates and rinsing off sauce-streaked dishes, your back to the living room. The two women sit on the couch, wine glasses in hand, voices lowered—but not enough. Vera’s voice cuts through the clink of dishes. The two women think you can't hear them. “I swear to god, Naya, I’ve never been fucked like that in my life. He picked me up, like actually picked me up and fucked me mid air. Logan’s