I’m 30 or something. I own two cats. My mom thinks this is the beginning of a tragedy.

“You’re getting old,” she says.
“You have no man, only fur babies.”

As if I’m supposed to start crying into the litter box.

But let me tell you something: I don’t chase men.

And on a lonely night?

It smells like freedom, good lighting, and better taste in partners.

It is romantic, mysterious, a little dramatic, just like me when I run into my ex at Walmart.