Panther Prattle

Without Broodiness There Are No Eggs At Breakfast

"You are far too naive," accuses Marcia when she begins roving in a tight circle.

"Actually... I am retired," I quip.

She stops short and chuckles.

"Why are you moping like the toddler without a pacifier?" I ask.

Marcia's face drops when she purses her lips into an exaggerated frown and hunches her shoulders.

"You are from the Caribbean... maybe you see things differently... through a different lens," she suggests.

"Marcia," I begin after logic nudges me into less defensive governance.

She whips her head in my direction, squints her eyes, then hisses, "Panthers are genetically black, Jocelyn."

I ponder her comment, then calmly advise, "I descend from bonded Africans, every lens is clear enough to plainly see that truth."

The streaming service shuffles to a lofi rendition of Still Waters Run Deep, and I stare, long and hard at Marcia, so long my eyes grit and shrink further into my skull.

After my heart declares victory over the string of expletives retreating into my subconsciousness, I tease, "Marcia, I know science has jack-all to do with fashion. Do not get me wrong, having a best friend owner of the hottest boutique in town, comes in handy."

She sucks in both cheeks, then brushes invisible goosebumps offer her forearms.

I take two additional sips, then add, "The human genome project demonstrates 99.9% of humans have identical DNA."

Marcia's penny-toned eyes broaden, and her chin tucks inward when her flute slides a smidge -causing champagne to splash and sully her cuticles.

"What are you saying? she replies after giving her head a presumed brain-clearing shake.

I lean forward, scoop a strawberry from the yet-to-be-devoured nosh platter, feast upon its sweetness, then reply, "What exactly did you hear?"