Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash

These two

Jennifer Kite-Powell
2 min readDec 12, 2022


I asked the universe to deliver my man to me. Two days later, the universe tossed these two onto my shoreline.

These two translates into the Frenchman and the Brit who materialized close to same time but arrived in different cars.

The Frenchman sent his missive by casually sliding into my DMs to wish me a bonne anniversaire. The Brit used a more detached approach of an email asking if this was still my email.

These two are completely different men, except they are exactly the same — they are fully inert — in between something or nothing or maybe both.

They need something they used to get from me, which I don’t have anymore — attention.

I was a pretty plastic pink blow up doll to them. A salacious crumb stuck in the corner of their mouth they didn’t want to wipe away until they let all the air out.

The Brit used self-loathing to try to re-enter my kingdom. When that didn’t work, he tried conjuring up memories of images he never fully had access to, trying to incite a digital riot with innuendo and the promise of bare skin.

The Frenchman was just French. He went straight for the jugular with our past liaisons sexualité. His English is still like that of five year old, peppered with sentences with no verbs. Which is odd since he’s a 49 year old waiter at a posh Paris café catering to Americans. He has two areas he focused on in the chat which revolve around his memories of my white lingerie and how caliente I was, which isn’t even French.

Both conversations are exhausting, like listening to a guy who thinks he’s a digital strategy expert mansplaining it to you on a Microsoft Teams chat.

Every now and then, I toss in a 💕 and 🔥 emojii to see what they might say next. Which image of me in their French Rugby jersey will they extract from their cache? Or will it be the memory of that dress I wore when our Black Cab careened through the streets of London on a rainy Wednesday.

Their memories seem to have no end. It’s like their hard drive has malfunctioned, and it is opening every file and dumping it into their brain so they can dump back out of their pie hole.

They continue their visceral assault, but I can’t hear them anymore. I’ve gone somewhere else and took my pink plastic blow up doll with me.



Jennifer Kite-Powell

Speculative poet, flash fiction writer, author, podcaster & Forbes senior contributor. Read my work here, on substack or at