They say men are predictable.
Her line was: ‘Hi, how u doing.’ And whenever that came, the next one would certainly be: ‘Am stuck somewhere, can I borrow 1k . . .’
Half a dozen years younger, now an extremely beautiful young woman. His own blood. . .
Careful that she didn’t turn to other men for help – as they would prawl on her for pleasure; he sometimes obliged, other times he let the message sit in the cold, shrivel and decay till the next one came, in usual fashion.
Often she told him things she wouldn’t tell her parents. Things she did, her break ups, life plans. . He listened, sprinkling doses of advice from time to time. But at 21, on a breezy night, she announced that she had let her innocence go.
It cut through him. He moaned for her.
‘She’s all grown up, I guess,’ and now grown apart. Space. Distance, have come between them too.
So someday he wants to warn her about a leech who’s clearly in it for play;
Like her, he writes: ‘Hi, how u doing.’
And just like him, she scoffs, let’s it sit in the cold as it shrivels and decays.
Their warmth gone to the dogs.