In those first months living in El Salvador, had I walked down a village street and seen young men leaning against gaping doorframes, their eyes steady upon me, I would have read the wrong story. Then, I could barely speak, let alone interpret what signs I might have seen: a flash of black ink on skin; aerosol piss scrawled across cinder block walls. I might have misremembered that those men catcalled, that they hissed. I would have seen cliché, not clique; the awkward beat of sex lost in translation, not the tick-tock of a multinational time bomb.