They’re too soft.
Too predictable.
Too loud.
Except me.
And him, of course.
But his danger is accidental.
He doesn’t know what he is.
That voice could cause spontaneous ovulation in nuns, and he uses it to ask octogenarians about their croissants.
It’s criminal.
I drift toward the flower stall.
Pick up a sunflower like it matters.
Tilt my head.
Soft. Curious.
Empty enough to invite rescue.
Men like him don’t go for sirens.
They go for dandelions in need of sunlight.
My yellow dress catches the light.
The sun hits my hair.
I hit back with pheromones and good posture.
Any minute now.
He’ll come around the corner, looking soft and tired and beautiful.
And the moment he sees me, some small part of him will go quiet.
Recognizing something he won’t know how to name yet.
Recognition is always the first step toward surrender.
I’m going to put a leash around his heart so gently he thanks me for it.
He rounds the corner.
Tall. Broad.
Gentle hands carrying a canvas bag.
His hair is damp.
He showered before coming here.
