I kept watch over her after she turned eighteen, fulfilling a favor owed to her father before allowing my depravity to take hold, giving in when she asked me to ruin her. Therefore, I know everything there is to know about the woman before me: her favorite poems—Shelley’s “The Masque of Anarchy” and Browning’s “My Last Duchess”—as well as what she prefers for breakfast—whole wheat toast with peanut butter and fresh fruit—and that she loves learning. If she’d had her way, she’d be studying literature and not just how to teach it. I know about the little pomegranate tattooed beneath her breast
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