Two beautiful women sit at a cafe. A phone rings. One woman opens her purse and looks at her phone.
–Who is it?
–Jim.
–Oh, ho! A man! Who is Jim? Jimmy?
–Wait, I’m reading what he says. Oh, god, not another one!
–Another what?
–Jim turned 45 today.
–Haha, another masculine mid-life crisis.
–He is remembering. He is realizing things.
–Looking back. Feeling. Having feelings. Feeling for the first time.
–Last week it was a guy named Kevin. Kevin’s 45 now and blah, blah, blah, he spent six thousand words to say nothing. Not a thing. He doesn’t want to see me, doesn’t want to talk to me, doesn’t want to hear how I’m doing, doesn’t want to buy me flowers, nothing. Just a waste of time, his time, my time, his life, and, by the way, my data – my phone doesn’t have much extra space on it – I have to delete something.
–Men.
–Yeah, you can say that again and add on the contempt. Just spit it out: men. Blah!
–Men!
–I knew, when I was 11 and a half, that my vagina was the shrine of organic human life. When I was 11 and a half.
–I knew at 12.
–Why, tell me, why these men take 30 years to realize what I knew at 11 and a half? I mean, really! Now they want to have kids with me when I’m 40? Don’t they know anything at all about anything at all about anything?
–They think they are immortal when they are young and there will be plenty of time.
–Well, there isn’t plenty of time. A 30-year-old uterus is old. 30-year-old eggs are old. 20 is the age. 15 is the age, but well, 20 is the age.
–So, have Kevin and James —
–Jimmy.
–Have Kevin and Jimmy gone whole hog?
–You mean bought sports cars and found 20-year-old shrines to worship?
–Yeah.
–Oh, I don’t care.
–I hope so and I hope those ninnies give them hell.
The end.