◉ 009 | Paraskevidekatriaphobia

Friday.

Summer evening, walking.

Bruno’s paws tapping the asphalt.

Leash in my hand, camera on my shoulder.

We stop in front of a bridal shop.

Mannequins in the window.

Headless. Armless.

Groom, bride, groom, bride.

I start framing the shot.

Eyes locked through the viewfinder.

I move in closer.

Closer still.

I touch the glass with my lens hood.

Then I hear them—

a group of men behind me.

Spilling out from the pub next door.

They sound older.

Drunk. Loud.

One voice cuts through—

deep, rough,

like a man who’s barked too many times

across too many bars.

“Don’t even try,” he says.

“You don’t need that.”

My eye still on the viewfinder,

trying to find the right frame.

This time—interrupted.

“I like how they’re headless,” I say.

He laughs.

“Go to hookers,” he says.

“It’s cheaper.”

“No foreplay.”

“New girl every time.”

“Any colour you want.”

The words crack the air.

Heavy. Sticky.

Landing hard.

The other three fellas giggle—

like teenage boys

whose voices are just starting to crack,

hands buried deep in their pockets.

He keeps going.

“All done in twenty minutes.”

I keep shooting,

imagining how the men look,

letting it all play out behind me.

When the rumble’s done,

I turn and look him straight in the eyes.

“You sound like a wise man,” I say.

We walk away.

The mannequins stay.

Brainless.

I never believed in

Friday the 13th.

Until today.