NERVOUS RED RIDING HOOD

(an urban fairy for the caffeinated and emotionally unstable)

At the intersection, I could go right and head home — but turning left would take me…

…straight into another day where no one warned me that everything would go straight to shit if I just didn't stay home, drink chamomile tea, and shut the hell up.

But, of course, I turn left. I always turn left. Left pulls me, like hormones, intuition, and that stupid feeling that something interesting might be around the corner. Usually, it's a breakdown.

My name's Red. My name is Red, not a nickname. My mom literally named me Red. She described the name as powerful, symbolic, and full of Mars energy, or something similar. And me? I'm just a neurotic, anxious, overstimulated city version of a fairy tale that's no longer safe for kids.

I wear a coat. Red. At the time of purchase, it was red and on sale at Zara. Now it looks like shame. I wear sneakers with no laces because who has time for knots when your brain is on constant fire alert?

I have a mission from Grandma. Of course. She lives in an apartment where the elevator sounds like it's summoning spirits. She asked me to bring her something "for the nerves." Classic. She takes "herbal drops" from the pharmacy, and I'm 90% sure she pours them into rakija.*.

So I bought her wine. I also bought her a bag of mints. Let her mix and match like some senile Potion Master.

Intersection. I'm at my apartment, taking a shower, and watching documentaries about serial killers. I turn left, passing through Urban Legend Park, where a man has recently had his dog, his bike, and his identity stolen.

I go left. Obviously.

***

The park is full. People running. Dogs running. Nobody knows why they're running, but they're running anyway. I walk. I sense it—something smells. It's either weed or destiny.

And then I see him.

A man dressed in a gray hoodie is perched on an electric scooter, seemingly anticipating his cult leader's arrival. Hood half-up, fingers too long, he looks like his favorite movie is "Fight Club," but he completely missed the point.

"Hey, little girl," he says.

I roll my eyes so hard my sockets crack.

"Jesus, man, no. Not today. I have zero energy left for men who think saying 'hey' is a mating call. I've got PMS and a bag of mints in my purse. Pick your next words carefully."

He laughs. Bastard. Of course, he's hot. One of those guys who knows he's hot, and that just ruins 80% of the appeal.

"You're not the typical Red Riding Hood."

"You're not the typical Wolf."

"Maybe that's why it works."

"Maybe that's why I have pepper spray."

"You possess a strong attitude." I like it".

"I've also got trauma. You'll like that too."

"You wanna grab a coffee?"

"No time."

"I've got plenty."

"Then spend it elsewhere."

We stare. Scooter beeps. I sigh. And of course—I say yes. I feel foolish, I must admit. And bored. Since we're already running late to grandma's, making another less-than-ideal choice won't make much difference.

****

The café is called "Three Little Pigs." Of course it is. The interior is hipster, with waiters sporting beards that resemble birds. We sit. He orders a matcha latte. I get a double espresso with no soul.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Red. You?"

"Wolf."

"You're disrespecting me."

"Nope."

"Wolf, what?"

"Just Wolf..."

"Oh, of course. Could it be more obvious?"

"It could. I also have a star tattoo."

"If you tell me you listen to Arctic Monkeys, I'm jumping out the window."

"I'm more into retro synth."

"Great. Another emotionally unavailable DJ."

He laughs. I don't. I'm thinking about grandma. The wine. The fact that I'm in another damn story I didn't ask for.

"What do you want from me, Wolfie?"

"Nothing. Just coffee. Maybe another."

"I'm a walking crisis. Anxiety. Hormones. A freight train of emotions."

"I'm a station. I like trains."

"I'm going to run you over."

"And you?"

"I already ran over myself. You're just a statistic."

****

I sleep over. Of course. He's not in bed yet. We spend time together on the couch. We watch a series. He holds my foot. I debate choking him with my sock or maybe kissing him. Classic Tuesday.

The next morning, I leave. The wine is still in my bag. My hair smells like his pillow. My coat is suffocating me. And then - the call.

Grandma.

"Where the hell have you been, whore?"

"Grandma?!"

"Oh, I'm kidding, devil-child. Did you meet him?"

"Who?"

"Wolf. He's my ex."

"EXCUSE ME?!"

"Well, we used to… mess around. Long ago. Before he opened 'Three Little Pigs."

"I need to walk into traffic now."

"Oh, don't be dramatic. He cooks well."

"Give me poison, grandma."

****

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

His voice, low and calm like the eye of a storm, cut through the static in my head.

"Didn't you notice the similarities?" he asked, tilting his head with that maddening half-smile.

"Same music. Same wine."

My chest constricts tightly.

The notes were playing in my head now—a soft, melancholic piano—echoing down a hallway of memories I didn't realize existed. And the wine…god, the wine. I could still taste it on my tongue, metallic and bitter with something unspoken.

I stared at him.

The world stilled, then stuttered like a scratched vinyl track. Breathing felt optional. My lungs burned with the effort of remembering how to be human.

Was I truly human? Or just a story someone else wrote?

"What now?" I croaked, my voice catching like a thread pulled too tight.

He shrugged, one hand resting on his dented scooter, the other cupping a chipped paper cup that still steamed in the cold. "Now," he said, "you go whichever way you want, Red."

My name in his mouth sounded less like a name and more like a warning. "And you?"

"I'll be here. I'll remain standing at the intersection. With my scooter and my sad-ass coffee."

"Why?"

His eyes softened, but he didn't blink. "Because you're the fairy tale," he said. "You just don't know the ending yet."

****

Today, I'm back. Same cracked pavement. Same goddamn intersection. The wind's a live wire, snapping my coat around my legs like I'm Marilyn Monroe on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I'm not sure if I'm glamorous or just unraveling in style.

To the right: comfort. Routine. That chamomile bullshit that keeps the demons politely sedated.

To the left: fire. Teeth. A grin that never reaches the eyes. The possibility of transforming into something tangible through the wreckage looms.

I close my eyes. The wind howls like it's rooting for chaos. And my feet? They already know.

I always turn left.

This is not due to a desire for destruction, but rather a belief in making mistakes that leave lasting scars worthy of storytelling. And because of the Wolf, who may never become a man,

But when he looks at me, I feel something. Something sharp. Something wild. Something that reminds me I'm alive.

And that's worth the fall.

(*rakija = brandy)