By Melia Lore.

I was sitting on my porch, waiting for my friend to show up. The moon was new, and the sky was a dusky rose color. It was a hot and sweaty evening; an evening that conjures thoughts of moist skin touching and stolen kisses behind the boathouse. That night, I was wearing nothing but… oh wait, I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts.

I looked up from my porch and saw two young men walking in the distance. They were dressed in black pants, white shirts, and yes… backpacks. You know who they are, we all know who they are, and I have no problem with their quest to try to save the world with their religious rhetoric.

Normally, I would have just walked into my house to avoid a religious confrontation, but I found myself watching them walk, almost begging them to come to me. “Come to me,” I telepathically called to them. I even twitched my nose and pulled my earlobe. Alas, they could not hear me.

Do you know what I would have done with two young men in long-sleeved button-down shirts? I would have batted my eyes at them, licked my lips seductively and asked them if they realize that its “organized” religion that has made our world such a flop house of floppity flop. The words “patriarchal” and “matrilineal” and the phrase “are you fucking kidding me?” would have flown from my lips like a cyborg praying mantis.

I waited, I watched. I even practiced a few opening lines and thought about whether I should offer them some popcorn or s’mores. They just kept on walking. I fantasized that maybe, just maybe, I would be the one to convert them. That boy #1 would turn to boy #2 and hand off his backpack, strip off his clothes and go streaking through the neighborhood.

None of that happened. My fantasies are weird.