Sandrine Lilie

Over mij

Salmiya at eleven at night is a strange sort of quiet. Everybody indoors, everybody pretending the week didn't happen. That's usually when my phone starts going.

I'm Congolese, thirty-one, and I'm a big woman. Soft, heavy, full chest, nothing squeezed into a shape it wasn't built for. Men who like that already know they like it, and the ones who don't are welcome to keep scrolling. Arabic, English and French between us, so language won't be the problem.

I come to you rather than the other way round. Give me an address I wouldn't be embarrassed to walk into, tell me what kind of evening you had in mind, and leave the rest with me.