Page 7 of Female Fantasy
“Oh, I’m from here—Mystic born and raised,” I say, wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth. “You’re from Groton, right?”
“No, where are youreallyfrom?” he asks, his eyes moving up and down my torso appreciatively. “You don’t see a lot of caramel-colored people in these parts. Your beauty is totally exotic.”
I suddenly feel the muffin churning in my stomach.
Hipster boy might read like a sensitive soul on-screen, but in person, he’s just as bad as the rest of them. Maybe even worse, because he’s got the righteous superiority of someonewho thinks of himself as an ally.
Silly me.
“Can you excuse me for a moment?” I say as sweetly as possible, shoving my laptop into my purse under the table and throwing my coat over my shoulders. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Sure thing!” His tone is cheerful. Oblivious. “It’ll give me a chance to order. Do you know if the beans here are ground sustainably? I’m trying to reduce my caffeine footprint.”
“You know, I’m not sure,” I tell the dude. Mike, I think his name is. Maybe Matt? “Why don’t you ask and I’ll pee?”
I make a beeline for the bathroom, but at the very last second turn into the kitchen.
“Back door?” one of the pastry chefs asks with a half smile.
“Back door,” I confirm.
Then I sneak out of the bakery, get into my car, and don’t look back.
I know what you’re probably wondering. Do I feel any remorse, an ounce of guilt, for abandoning the well-meaning Neanderthal while he’s pestering that poor barista about her coffee beans? Honestly, no. I do not. I’ve saved us both a hell of a lot of time. Had I been honest with him, he’d probably ask me what he did wrong. Then I’d have to explain, and he’d get angry, and we’d do that whole song and dance where he cries and calls me a bitch three months early. There’s nothing more fragile than a man’s ego. Well, maybe his masculinity.
It’s tied. Fifty-fifty.
By the time I pull into the parking spot outside myapartment complex, I am totally and utterly emotionally exhausted. Not ideal, considering I still need to come up with a slogan for this femcare company other than “Take It Up the Ass!” The second I unlock the door to my studio, I flop facedown on my bed and exhale. My apartment is tiny but cozy. I’ve decorated it with vintage movie posters, corny book quotes, wacky wallpaper, and colorful furniture. My bedside table resembles a corncob and my sofa is polka-dotted. I absolutely detest minimalist apartments. Why would I pay to live somewhere with no personality? I’d rather sleep in my car than in a white Scandinavian box cosplaying as an IKEA warehouse.
My phone pings. I look down.
The Bernie Bro has left me a voicemail.
I inhale sharply, shut my eyes, and prepare myself for the worst.
Then I press play.
“How could you do that to me, Joonie?” he wails. “Running out on our very first date? Seriously? That’s really shitty behavior, even for some guy you don’t know. I waited for you. For, like, ten whole minutes. You’re probably used to getting away with this sort of stuff because nobody ever calls you out. So I’m putting an end to that cycle. You’re selfish, Joonie. You’re judgmental and cruel and—”
I really need to stop dating all these loser boys. Where can I find a real man in eastern Connecticut?
Maybe I need to date a dad. But whose dad? And how does one procure a dad?
“If you had just gotten to know me, you would have seen that I’m a really good guy,” the dude continues, monologuing. “I was a Boy Scout. I’m registered to vote. I attended the Women’s Marchandthe Black Lives Matter protests! And I’m an incredible lover. If you asked my ex, she’d tell you—”
Oh, who am I kidding?
As my date continues to drone on and on over the speaker, I pull out my laptop and open up the last chapter of the fic I’m writing. Smiling to myself, I reach for a throw pillow to prop myself up and open my bottom drawer.
Then I touch myself to the idea of Ryke until I fall asleep, sated.
Ryke appears in the shallow pool, a shining mirage of a man.
First the top of his head.
The tip of his tail.
Then the rest of him.
