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You take another bite of your burger, savoring the tang of pickle and grease as your gaze drifts lazily back to the table of businesswomen. They’re deep in discussion, one tapping her tablet with the clipped authority of someone used to being obeyed, another gesturing with a pen, mid-pitch. They're sharp—polished suits, efficient bun hairstyles, sleek accessories. Professionals.
**But not for long.**
A whisper of power hums from your skin to the laminate tabletop, invisible to the human eye, but profoundly present. You don’t speak a word—words are too crude. You *imagine*, and reality, ever pliant, reshapes itself.
It starts with the middle woman—Carla, though no one called her that two seconds ago. Her precise French twist hiccups in space, trembles, and suddenly fluffs outward into an aggressive, bleach-blonde beehive streaked with espresso brown highlights. Her sharp navy suit sparkles faintly, the lapels narrowing into rhinestone-trimmed faux-leather, and her blouse darkens to hot pink satin, its top four buttons undone to reveal a heart-shaped pendant resting generously between ample cleavage. Her acrylic nails—now three inches long and zebra-striped—click excitedly against her phone as she scrolls.
Next is Donna, on the right. Her espresso slacks tighten into low-rise, pastel blue stretch pants. Her blazer vanishes altogether, replaced by a cropped bolero with rhinestone shoulder pads. Hoop earrings the size of saucers swing from her lobes, and her Jersey accent—a musical blend of nasal vowels and unearned confidence—slides neatly into place like a key in a lock. She’s still arguing about quarterly revenue, but now she punctuates her financial projections with *“babe,” “sweetheart,”* and *“ya feel me?”*
The third—Trina—is the loudest. She slams a neon pink nail down on the screen of her glittery iPad, snapping her gum as she declares, “Okay but *listen*—if we push this merger through before Q4, we’ll absolutely *dominate* the North Jersey market. Like, dominate it. Like, stilettos-on-their-necks kind of domination.”
Her accent is so thick it practically fogs up the salad in front of her. Her blazer's lapels have been transformed into glossy leopard print. Her phone case reads *"Boss Bitch."*
They haven’t stopped working. If anything, they’re more efficient than ever—powered by raw, unfiltered hustle and bulletproof confidence. Their perfume, a cloud of artificial vanilla and floral musk, has started wafting across the food court. No one minds. One of the mall’s custodians glances at them dreamily, then slips and nearly drops his mop.
You lean back in your chair and watch as the new version of Carla—now *Cah-luh*—throws her manicured hand in the air and calls out, “Excuse me, waiter?! Can I get, like, a shot of espresso or somethin’? I’m tryna *close*.”
There are no waiters in the food court.
You chew slowly. The world is pliant.
**But not for long.**
A whisper of power hums from your skin to the laminate tabletop, invisible to the human eye, but profoundly present. You don’t speak a word—words are too crude. You *imagine*, and reality, ever pliant, reshapes itself.
It starts with the middle woman—Carla, though no one called her that two seconds ago. Her precise French twist hiccups in space, trembles, and suddenly fluffs outward into an aggressive, bleach-blonde beehive streaked with espresso brown highlights. Her sharp navy suit sparkles faintly, the lapels narrowing into rhinestone-trimmed faux-leather, and her blouse darkens to hot pink satin, its top four buttons undone to reveal a heart-shaped pendant resting generously between ample cleavage. Her acrylic nails—now three inches long and zebra-striped—click excitedly against her phone as she scrolls.
Next is Donna, on the right. Her espresso slacks tighten into low-rise, pastel blue stretch pants. Her blazer vanishes altogether, replaced by a cropped bolero with rhinestone shoulder pads. Hoop earrings the size of saucers swing from her lobes, and her Jersey accent—a musical blend of nasal vowels and unearned confidence—slides neatly into place like a key in a lock. She’s still arguing about quarterly revenue, but now she punctuates her financial projections with *“babe,” “sweetheart,”* and *“ya feel me?”*
The third—Trina—is the loudest. She slams a neon pink nail down on the screen of her glittery iPad, snapping her gum as she declares, “Okay but *listen*—if we push this merger through before Q4, we’ll absolutely *dominate* the North Jersey market. Like, dominate it. Like, stilettos-on-their-necks kind of domination.”
Her accent is so thick it practically fogs up the salad in front of her. Her blazer's lapels have been transformed into glossy leopard print. Her phone case reads *"Boss Bitch."*
They haven’t stopped working. If anything, they’re more efficient than ever—powered by raw, unfiltered hustle and bulletproof confidence. Their perfume, a cloud of artificial vanilla and floral musk, has started wafting across the food court. No one minds. One of the mall’s custodians glances at them dreamily, then slips and nearly drops his mop.
You lean back in your chair and watch as the new version of Carla—now *Cah-luh*—throws her manicured hand in the air and calls out, “Excuse me, waiter?! Can I get, like, a shot of espresso or somethin’? I’m tryna *close*.”
There are no waiters in the food court.
You chew slowly. The world is pliant.
What do you do?
Create your own Path!