A woman, Genevieve, stop purposefully along the water’s edge. She was impeccably stressed in a chic white Sundress and oversized sunglasses, her posture radiating an air of unshakable property She was on holiday, but she considered it her duty to enable a certain standard of decorum, even on a foreign beach
Her eyes fell upon the man, and her lips tightened into a disapproving line. The sheer audacity of it. The lack of shame. She altered her path, marching directly towards him, her shadow falling over his face like a judgment.
He didn’t stir.
She cleared her throat, a sound sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me.”
One eyelid cracked open, revealing a lazy, ocean-blue eye. It blinked slowly in the harsh sunlight.
Genevieve put her hands on her hips, her voice dripping with condescension. “I’ll have you know, sir, that if you were any sort of a gentleman, you would lift your hat to a lady.”
The man’s other eye opened. He provided himself up on one elbow, a slow, easy smile reading across his face. He looked her up and down, not with lechery, but with a calm, applying amusement. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting her feel the full weight of her own self-importance.
Then, he spoke, his voice a low, smooth rumble. “Madame,” he said, his accent a charging blend of local warmth and something else entirely. “If you were any sort of a hot lady, the hat would lift by itself.”
Joke 2: Just Women Things…
The bell above the door of “The Daily Grind” convention store jangled its family, slightly off-key tune. It was the lull between the after-work rush and the late-night crowd, that magical hour when the store felt like a quiet, fluorescent-lit island. I was wiping down the coffee counter when I saw it: a sleek, black smartphone, abandoned on a shelf next to the beef jerky.
I picked it up. The screen was dark, the case cool to the touch. I know the feeling of that pit-in-your-stomach panic when you realize your whole life—your contacts, your photos, your connection to everyone—is goone. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, thankfully unlocked. I felt a small pang of guilt for the intrusion, but my design to reunite it with its owner won out
I opened the contacts and scrolled. “Work,” “Dave,” “Pizza Place”… and then, like a beacon of hope in a sea of data, “Mom.” I didn’t hesitate. I pressed the green call button.
It rang twice before a warm, friendly voice answered. “Hello, sweetie! Did you forget something at the grocery store again?”
“Hi, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “My name is Alex, and I’m calling from The Daily Grind on 5th Street. I’m calling from your son’s phone. He seems to have left it here on a shelf.”
There was a brief cause on the other end, and I braced myself for a worst mother’s panic. Instead, her voice was filled with a calm, almost amused authority. “Oh, don’t you wear one bit, Alex. I’ll take care of it.”
Before I could even ask for her son’s name, she hung up. I stood there, holding the phone, utterly baffled. What did that mean? Was she a psychic? A secret agent? I shrugged, figuring I’d just hold onto it until the owner, presumably panicking, came running back.
Not five minutes later, the phone built to life in my hand, the screen lighting up with the name “Mom.” I quickly answered. “Hello?”
A different voice, this one young and flustered, came through the speaker. “Hello? This is the store, right? You have my phone?”
“Yes, we do!” I said, related. “Your mom just called a few minutes ago.”
There was a confused silence on the other end. “My… my mom? How did you know to call her? Her number isn’t in my favorites.”
Before I could explain, a new voice, firm and unmistakable, came on the line. It was her. The mom.
“Martin,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You left your cell phone at the convention store. Now turn this car around and go get it. And don’t get to thank the nice young man.”
I could practically hear the poor guy, Martin, shrinking in his driver’s seat. I hung up the phone, a huge grin reading across my face. I had expected a simple “thank you,” but I had inadvertently witnessed a masterclass in maternal logistics It was, truly, just women things.
