Salwa Al-Neimi

Protruding, rebelling against the lips, the long, pointed, ill-fated fang stared at me, (in spite of awkward attempts to hide it). Stealing adolescent glances, I dreamed it pierced me, pushing deep in the base of my neck. I bit my lower lip, flushed, but not before blushing under its spell. Yesterday, Yesterday when he smiled at me, with teeth in perfect alignment (dentistry can work miracles), I turned my apostate face, and squinting, pretended to watch passersby.