Page 7 of Lady and the Butcher
It was giving woman. Witch. Womb wisdom. The whole crunchy trifecta.
“Okay, Moon Mamas,” I said out loud, mostly to myself. “Let’s make some woo-woo magic tonight.”
My phone buzzed on the porch railing.
Alana:Running late but bringing the cacao and my divorce papers
I smiled. Alana Smotherman was a goddess in yoga pants who could crush a man’s soul with her words and then offer him a healing tincture after. She was going to read a poem about rebirth, cry about the end of her marriage, and lead us in a chant.
We’d been close since our College of Charleston days, back when I was majoring in Women’s and Gender Studies and she was deep in Holistic Health Sciences—a program so crunchy the senior seminar required brewing your own kombucha and defending it like a thesis.
We’d met at a student-run herb walk in Hampton Park, where she was explaining the spiritual properties of mugwort to a circle of freshmen while I heckled her from the back about how it also kept moths out of sweaters. She’d narrowed her eyes, handed me a sprig, and said, “Smell that and tell me it isn’t magic.” She’s been proving me wrong—and keeping me honest—ever since.
We were the kind of friends who could share a silence as easily as a protest sign, who’d stood side by side at marches and one very memorable silent retreat that ended when we both got kicked out for giggling during meditation.
More arrivals trickled in—some barefoot, some braless, all radiating strong feminine energy. The circle filled with laughter and hugs and wafts of patchouli.
I lit the center candle. “All right,” I said, settling onto my woven cushion. “Welcome, sisters. Tonight, we gather to release the narratives that no longer serve us?—”
“Like my mother-in-law’s belief that boundaries are optional?” Kat Drummond interrupted, dropping into her seat with a huff.
I grinned. “Exactly.”
Alana appeared behind her carrying a tray with a bowl of thick, dark cacao and a bundle of dried sage. “And to honor the new stories we’re writing,” she said in her deep, theatrical voice. “The ones where we don’t apologize for being the main character.”
She was one of my ride-or-die people—the kind of friend who knew the names of my childhood pets, my most shameful high school crushes, and exactly how many stitches I’d gotten the night we decided to skinny-dip off Folly Beach and I cut my foot on a shell.
Alana had a knack for seeing straight through people—like X-ray vision, but for bullshit—and she wielded it with a mix of wit, warmth, and a little witchy menace. The woman could deliver a TED Talk on trauma bonds, read your birth chart from memory, and make you laugh so hard you’d pee a little … all before finishing her first glass of wine.
Applause rippled. We were all the main characters tonight.
The ceremony unfolded the way they always did: journaling, sharing, a little ugly crying. Someone brought a ukulele. Someone else passed around a spray labeled Moon Mist. We howled at the moon—not metaphorically. Literally.
And I meant every second of it.
Because I was that bitch.
I composted. I bought local honey. I carried reusable straws and believed in reclaiming the sacred feminine. I read bell hooks and called my senators. I’d led three post-abortion support circles and once doula’d a birth that involved whale sounds and tantric breathing.
And still.
Still, somewhere under all that intentionality, a part of me was coiled tight like a spring. Like I was walking around on a trampoline, trying to look graceful while my core trembled from the effort of staying upright.
Which is probably why I couldn’t stop thinking about the request.
The one I’d sent to Alpha Mail.
The one I hadn’t told anyone but Stephen about—not even Alana.
I stared into the fire, pretending to be enraptured by Kat’s monologue about reclaiming her cervix, and imagined what would happen if an alpha male actually showed up. If the fantasy I’d scrawled in the dark came to life and knocked on my door like it belonged there.
What would he say?
What would he do?
Would he laugh at my moon robe? Would he tear it off?
Would he make me forget my name?
