Iryna Somkina

It was hard to remember the first drink, or what age I was. —Kevin Richard White I. Cans and Camouflage It started with cans. Not bottles, not wine glasses, not anything that looked adult. Cheap, sweet, low-alcohol cans—bright colors, sticky taste. They were always warm by the time we opened them. Nothing was ever ideal. She was twelve. That’s the part that never fits in the mouth. Twelve. A child’s number.

“Order anything you want,” the men said in unison. I ordered beer. That was the cue. They were waiting for us. Exchange students, a year up. We met them outside. The girls from my course hadn’t mentioned there would be others. No point sitting in the dorm, they said. We went to a bar. Dark, loud. One of those places where you always lean in. One of the men, from the east, settled on the girl with dark hair and dark, vivid eyes.