So there I am,
Minding my business.
On my evening walk.
Innocent.
Unsuspecting.
A domesticated man in the wild.
My friends are lounging about like summer’s unpaid extras.
She waves me over—come sit, say hi, be social, pretend you're normal.
Fine.
I oblige.
I’m gracious like that.
Then she asks for my phone.
We lock eyes.
Not just a glance.
A moment.
The kind of eye contact that makes the universe cough politely and look away.
She starts playing songs on my phone like it’s hers.
I, in turn, begin spinning a random umbrella someone abandoned,
like Mary Poppins but with ADHD.
Vibes?
Immaculate.
Even the air was vibing.
That was Saturday.
This morning?
She shows up again. For breakfast.
But this time…
She’s reborn.
Hair blacker than a moonless night.
Straightened like the calm before a storm.
Makeup sharp enough to wound.
She walks in with that look that says:
“I know I’m beautiful — and I dare you to forget it.”
The shirt? Practically whispers blasphemy.
Just thin enough to reveal the ceremonial push-up bra underneath
an offering to chaos.
What has gotten into these women?
Are those heels for walking… or for war?
How is it that every eye roll now feels like foreplay?
Is it just me, or are they hunting?
What are they hunting?
Why do I suddenly feel like the prey?
Is there a group chat titled “Let’s Ruin Him Emotionally”?
Why do they laugh like they know something I don’t?
Do they share eyeliner and secrets in the moonlight?
Each day, another one shows up.
More fire in her eyes.
More curve in her spine.
More spell in her walk.
Like the full moon sent out a group text:
“It’s time, girls. Awaken.”
And awaken they have.
One by one, they emerge
lip-glossed,
hip-cocked,
ready to set the village on fire.
Me?
I'm sitting there, spam in one hand,
coffee in the other,
Halfway between awe and panic.
I need to get on this Personal Independence Payment Program
just to afford the emotional whiplash.
Because something’s brewing.
And whatever it is,
it doesn’t wear socks...
It doesn’t play fair...
And it definitely doesn’t ask for permission...
Welcome to the jungle, lads.
Hope you brought snacks.
P.S.
Someone tell the moon to quit projecting its unresolved goddess energy and ancient fertility codes.
- I’m not sure the ladies can handle much more radiance without starting a revolution, and
- I can’t survive another morning with my jaw on the floor.
If only I had Tarot Cards...