It wasn’t that I hated men. I loved men, actually. Loved what they could be when they were honest. Loved a fresh haircut, a watch at the wrist, the smell of good cologne on warm skin, the drop in a man’s voice when he wanted you to hear more than what he was saying. Loved good hands, a deliberate mouth, and good dick with enough stroke and sense to leave a woman weak, damp, and checking Mena’s next opening before the sheets had cooled.
It had been a year since I’d had that kind of trouble in my life. A year since sex had felt like more than stress relief or somebody trying to prove themselves on my body.
And it wasn’t because men had stopped reaching.
They still found their little ways. A story reaction here. A “you crossed my mind” text from a number I should have deleted. A man from some mixer circling back like I might have forgotten he was boring in person. A few harmless compliments. A few not-so-harmless invitations. Enough interest to remind me I was still desirable, and not enough depth to make me want to disturb my peace.
My phone was dry by choice.
At some point, I had stopped responding to anything that only wanted access and called it interest. Stopped entertaining men who knew how to admire me but had no idea how tomeet me. Stopped confusing being wanted with being worth somebody’s effort.
I was not dead. I was not cold. I was not above being moved.
I was just tired of polished representatives.
Men who knew how to package themselves for the internet. Men who wore “intentional” like a fitted shirt. Men who had full paragraphs about healing, softness, Black love, and communication, then showed up in person hollow as a prop. Men whose captions were thoughtful, whose pictures were beautiful, and whose actual presence felt like clocking in.
That was the trick of the age we lived in. Everybody had language now. Everybody had a good angle. Everybody had just enough time to type themselves into the most evolved version of who they hoped to be.
Real life was where the seams showed. That was where good lighting died and the truth started sweating.
Mena dusted at my shoulder with a soft brush. “There. Don’t nobody get to say I didn’t do my part.”
“You always do your part.”
“I know that’s right.” She tilted her head. “So. What we wearing?”
I laughed. “You moving awfully fast.”
“You got your toes done, your nails done, and your hair laid like this. Don’t play in my face, Talia.”
I reached for my chocolate Bottega Andiamo, the leather rich and soft against my palm, smiling despite myself. “Something cute.”
“Something dangerous,” she corrected.
I didn’t answer that.
Because the truth was, I had not decided whether I was dressing for possibility or just refusing to waste a good blowout.
Probably both.
My phone buzzed again before I could lock it. A text from Kendra, my best friend and longtime partner in talking sense into me when I got too deep in my own head.
Kendra: If you text me at 6:42 talking about you’re not coming, I’m pulling up to your house myself.
I smiled so fast it irritated me.
Mena saw it too. “That your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Tell Kendra I said don’t let you punk out.”
“I hate all of y’all.”
“No, you don’t.” She grinned. “Go be fine in public.”
By the timeI got back to my place on the Lower Hill, the day had slipped into that honeyed part of late afternoon where light made everything look softer than it felt in the morning.