The feeling when she finally notices your vibe, laughs to your jokes, dances to your music and sings along too is priceless.
In a bleep, you’re diving into the sky. You would beguile the moon to hang low, shy of touching the lake with her shine just beyond the horizon. You can snap the sun dark. You can even start a spontaneous parade of shooting stars in the midnight sky. You’re like a raft on The Dead Sea, drifting in the motion. Not in any fear of sinking. The things she does to you!
She okays your date proposal and Tom Cruise doesn’t disappoint in ‘Mission Impossible Fallout’ during your movie night. She thinks your movie taste is perfectly curated. Your heart shakes like you hit a pothole. The universe is on your side.
“Maybe Netflix and Chill would do the trick next time?” you ask, drooling over her dark tender lips.
“Get out of my head Reagan,” she replies, “yeah!”.
Reagan, a name carefully chiseled to fit the hopeless romantics. As Brian does for serial fuck-boys. Same for the Kevins except for their cry baby circuses. You haven’t met a Mike yet.
You drop her off at her apartment in the middle of the night and in the midst of the silence with only your breath to share, with your body breaking with desire and skin static with a yearning for touch, you pull your neck back and think, ‘maybe next time’. Maybe she deserves better than a car seat. To your disadvantage.
The next few weeks are devoid of your senses. Texting like horny adolescent teens over the second. She hasn’t laughed this much in ages. You’re surprised you are this funny. You in no time have inside jokes to yourselves. You are so used to her like the moon takes to the night sky.
The unreleased sexual tension is through the roof, headed for the skies. Way above the clouds. Her travel to Dadaab for some humanitarian work for two weeks does best at starving you of (you know). It’s at this moment that you realise how patient a man can get.
The sun, moon and stars mock you as the days drag slow. You have never been so close to someone yet so far. Like a prisoner, you count the days until the day you step outside to the real world again. Your time has never been this religiously followed, always asking if she is still coming over in the next few days.
A second movie date it is. This time, at your place. You did some bit of culinary research in between your week of testosterone bursts and found your way around some recipes. That you’re going to cook for her upon her arrival adds sexy to your title. Ding! Points.
‘Chivas or Singleton?’ she texts.
‘Which gets you naked quicker😉😜?’ you reply.
Thanks to tech, you can get away with murder aided by an emoji.
‘Both I guess?!’ she texts almost immediately.
Thanks, Universe, for the girls who don’t have ‘nibuyie‘ (buy me) hiding behind their lips waiting for an innocent soul to devour.
The movie date, as expected, escalates quickly to a game of teasing and foolish laughter and before long, clothes aren’t of the essence. The rest is a memory. I guess the booze did it’s job right. The walk of shame and guilt follow in that order. But not for long. The second and third shag make you more comfortable with both your inner and outer nakedness. Meet and greet is elevated to meet and beat.
And that’s when the boat starts taking in water.
You have your first among many fights about your phone, as always. Who the fuck was Sharon over the call?!
Then she’s all over your friends saying they aren’t good for your relationship health. She feels that you should drop them. The very friends that ‘wing-manned’ you to her. One night, over your alcohol drowned blood, you tell her how hideous she looks in that brown stocking over her head. And that salt didn’t have to be too much in the dinner plate. So she doesn’t cook for you any more. She says you can keep eating the saltless food that gives you the guts to be so insensitive. Hoping that she teaches you manners, she only appalls you twice as more. She covers herself and serves you her back, heaving from anger. Her shoulder blade is all the nakedness you’ll be seeing in the forthcoming weeks.
Being the umpteenth time she’s this mad, you’re not the slightest bit shaken. You wonder who even sips tea like that?! Is slurping her specialty besides hating on ‘Raira’? For everything’s sake, the only thing the poor man did is fought for justice!
Hell on high water it is.
And the questions pour in like hail. Whether sex was the poison to your union. Whether or not you did the right thing dating her in the first place. You come to notice that Erick Wainaina’s music wasn’t even close to being her ideal type and that she thinks Comedy Centrals’s Michael Keegan and Jordan Peele are overrated. This bores a hole right through your being. It comes to your realisation that you were so different in so many senses. For Christ’s sake she doesn’t even like brown bread. Is that too much to ask?! She likes her music loud yet you on the other hand don’t even like her music. Who listens to Lady Gaga?! And the relationship gets as tight as a white woman’s ass. A little more tension and snap!
You spite a little more, touch a little less, realising how worlds apart you are. The relationship does a somewhat natural death. No goodbye sex, just a ‘where should I leave your key’.
And the pursuit of new love begins again. Only this time, you promise not to fall in to deep. Maybe knee-high will suffice.
“Hi! I’m Reagan . What’s your name?”
“Hello. I’m Mrs Greg. Nice to meet me,” pointing to a ring on her finger.
Have a wonderful week.