Aya’s hair is sopping wet and it’s long enough that the ends make swirling patterns against my exposed collarbones and tickle my skin from where she is leaning over my shoulder. She refuses to put it into a ponytail or a bun. I even offered to twist together one or two thick braids on the train ride over. She says wet hair down is a sexier look. Which is fine for the beach but I don’t know what there is to be sexy for in the shoddy computer lab of Snapton Public Library.