There’s something intoxicating about a man in a leather jacket. Maybe it’s the scent of rebellion. Or the illusion of danger without actual jail time. Maybe it’s the cinematic promise that this will not end well and your inner chaos, polite as ever, whispers, “I’ll take two.”
I used to think I had a type. Tall. Dark. Charismatic. Emotionally unavailable in five languages. The kind of man who shows up late, kisses like a promise, and leaves like a ghost.
Call it charisma. Call it unresolved childhood issues wrapped in a leather jacket. I called it love.
Again and again. And again.