Rapturous applause struck my ears like thunder. The hunter/tyrant drank it up like a greedy crone feasting on the soup of her lover’s bones. She was all, “come hither”. She had not done any work, but there she was, rebranding herself as an artista. As I went to challenge her, she tousled her hair. She let the strap of her camisole drip lazily off her right shoulder. In that wilfully helpless way, she contrived to divest every man of self-doubt.
I wanted to denounce the pantomime but you should have seen the men. One handsome youth in his fifties raced away from a tequila sunrise. His younger buddy abandoned an espresso on a wet, wooden deck. A third party smacked his face on a utility room shelf while sneakily texting her in the dark.
Eyeing a Sharpie in my purse, I thought about defacing the screen of her android device. Something like, “Sit down, xoxo. You are a fraud.”
Hunter/Tyrant: A bedtime story