I had no hope of impressing her, but she liked me anyway. “Namiko’s pretty,” I said, looking away. “Inko too.” I still wore my hair in a knot held up with a pin: a style for girls past childhood but too young to be worth spending money on a hairdresser. At that moment my bun gave itself up to gravity and the sticky heat that weighed on the city. I took down my hair and Inko reached for it. Lifting my hair with one hand, she fanned the back of my exposed neck as I sat limp-armed and grateful. “Soft,” she whispered.
