Men Always Go for the Meat

Men Always Go for the Meat

Kimberly Beatriz Rosa | Poetry

I remember waiting for M one Saturday night. I am in Manhattan standing in front of a Starbucks. It is chilly during this time. While waiting, I buy a bottle of water and a fruit bar. M is on his way to pick me up. But he has been running late for a while now. The streets are empty, the green and red signals gloss over the cement as cars rush by. My body stands in the same position the entire time. M finally arrives. I step into the car holding my bag and a half-drunk bottle of water. His car is warm, cozy enough to sleep in. M smiles in my direction as he sets up the GPS. He ’ s attractive under the dim lighting, I say to myself. I am trying my best to not look flushed. He takes me out for dinner, we pick up our meal, and go by the water to eat. I laugh a lot when I am around M. I like the attention he gives me / like a cat playing with yarn. I like the way he says my name / how it cradles into his tongue and comes out like a singing angel. A woman like me has never felt so much appreciation.

art credit: "Good Anthropocene" (2021) by Jacqueline Staikos