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…
