Death In The Time Of Facebook.
It will begin with a vague post. “So shocked!” “Gone Too Soon” “#RIP” You will know something has happened but won’t know what. Suddenly more and more of the vague posts will flood your timeline. You will follow the comments in the post looking for clues. At some point the familiar name of an acquaintance you knew only from high school, or TV, or Facebook or the church parking lot, or as a friend of a friend of a friend will pop up. You will join in the shock. You will question how someone so young died so suddenly. You will return to the comments on each post.
Someone will post #RIP and link to his name. You will click on her profile looking for the story. She wasn’t that close a friend but you need to know. You will search through her common friends pages looking for answers. To feed your curiosity. At some point images of vehicles in a crash will emerge. “He stood no chance,” you will think. “Oh the cancer was stage four, maybe they shouldn’t have bothered with treatment,” you will say as you engage in an inbox conversation with a doctor friend. “Suicide? Aiii why? Depression? Kwani she didn’t have friends? He should have just picked himself up."
In the midst of it all you will scribble a thoughtful status update about the last time you saw him. Years back you shared a class. He always saved you a seat. You bumped into her at a concert just two weeks ago. She looked so happy. You will miss her. And then you will return to her profile page. You will go through her final posts and read the “signs”. You will think to yourself she probably saw it coming. He lived his life to the fullest and died doing what he loved best. A Paul Coelho “share” will signal to you that death was imminent.
You will start a whatsapp conversation with a mutual friend. “How did the accident happen? Was he drunk? Did he have a lead foot?” In your feeble attempt to purge the reality of the loss, you will confine a whole human’s lifetime to a drunken error of judgement regardless of how they lived the day, weeks, months or years before. You will apportion blame to the deceased because “he should know that bikes and Subarus are suicidal” or “she shouldn’t have been out at night anyway.” You will be indifferent to the fundraiser to return a body from India. “If it were me I’d be cremated” or “They should’ve just treated her at KNH instead of leaving the family in debt.”
You will join the Facebook page “In Memory of…” and share a thought, a verse or a link to a Don Moen song on YouTube. Or just be silent. You will find out where meetings are happening and probably never show up, or go because another mutual friend is going that you don’t mind sitting with. You will take a couple of hours off from work to show up at the funeral service; if the venue is “close to town”. You will wipe a tear through the tributes while asking your friend who the guy sitting next to the mum is. You will stare at his girlfriend pitifully. You will post and tag your location with a picture of the funeral program to show the world how much you cared. You will view the body and join a circle of old friends chatting on the sidelines. You will attend a funeral and you will go home.
And somewhere on the pews of the same church, someone will attend that same funeral, and wish they never had to go back home.
#PeniMbili #ThoughtfulThursday
Friday, September 23, 2016
Purging Mom
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, should be carried away to heaven on a soft foamy cloud surrounded by angels with harps playing them their favourite Solomon Mkubwa and Rose Muhando tunes.
For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.
For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens' innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives - and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor's orders - or because school fees.
For standing strong behind men who did or didn't deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives' sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens' university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometre away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens - after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.
And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say "I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!"
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn't die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.
Mothers.
Because you only get one. And when she's gone, she's gone.
For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers should earn a right to fly first class on those self-contained deluxe rooms in the air that they only got to see on television in their lifetimes. They should be flown to the Maldives, allowed a few days on the beach before the soft foamy cloud, in their favourite color, comes to lift them up to the pearly gates.
For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, protecting their childrens' innocence till the cracks of years of pain begin to become apparent in latter days, for all the tears, mothers should be driven in Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, escorted by bodyguards like VVIPs and boarded on the runway on that flight to the Maldives - and eventually end up on a soft foamy cloud, with a chef serving them all the food they had to stop eating years back on doctor's orders - or because school fees.
For standing strong behind men who did or didn't deserve that strength or support, men who probably took them for granted and snored through their wives' sobbing into pillows deep in the night, for that, mothers surely, should live their last days in the home of their dreams. That home that they secretly took pictures of when they crossed the city to attend chama or a ruracio. That home they could have afforded if they put their own dreams before paying for their childrens' university degrees. For their strength mothers, should enjoy having guards in uniform open gates a kilometre away, valet parking and have Suzanne Owiyo perform to welcome their guests to the housewarming party, before they depart for the airport in their Land Rover Discoveries and G Klasses, to be boarded on a luxury jet and fly first class to the Maldives. And a soft foamy cloud, would lift them up to the heavens - after finally figuring out what you meant when you told them you went jet skiing.
And when the cloud would descend on to the beach in the Maldives, a mother would say "I have lived a full life. I have done all I needed and wanted. My children are fine without me. I am good to go! Bring on the cloud already! My maker awaits!"
Mothers, for all the work they put in while on earth, shouldn't die helplessly alone and frightened in a hospital bed with an oblivious nurse just metres away. For their years of toil and labour and crushing the heads of snakes with their bare feet, mothers deserve better than to be laid on the bare cold floor of a morgue. For all the tears they shed as they cover their families in prayer, mothers should probably be allowed a final prayer of their own. For all their strength, mothers should be allowed to finish strong. To finish on their terms; even when the end comes sooner than they expected.
Mothers.
Because you only get one. And when she's gone, she's gone.
(7) - Chapter One
He's so perfect.
Buzz Buzz. The fuchsia blink on her phone is an alert that he's on the other end. She grabs her phone quickly and swipes up. (7). Seven. That means seven perfectly crafted messages. Seven heartfelt thoughts. Seven things to look forward to.
He crept up on her. Quite literally. Not her type, she had thought. Wait, why did she care, she didn't have a type. She didn't need to have a type. Who needs a type when you don't need anyone at all. When you're done and dusted. Just good all by yourself. Who needs a type when you've thrown in the towel. Retired from the game. When you just don't want to even think that you could love again - trust again. That you could give your heart to another human to destroy, again. That you could even find the pieces of your broken heart that are delicately being held together just so you can remain alive. That you could hand those pieces over to another being and trust that they won't give you back your heart worse than it was?
(7). That's seven more times that she'll feel a touch of warmth and a shiver of cold all at once! Her body will quiver and she'll sink into her bed and hug herself. She'll close her eyes and imagine him there. He'd be staring right into her eyes and she into his. His eyes - so honest. Carrying the pain of years before and baring it bravely before her. She'd place her palm on his cheek, wishing his pain away. As if just the touch of her hand would be the cure.
He crept up on her. By God did he creep up on her! She prides herself in being able to sniff even the slightest whiff of interest from a mile away. She might need to pride myself in something else! There really was nothing to sniff though. It was a greeting. And then a joke. And another joke. And then a string of back and forth - greetings and jokes. They were both world's apart minding their own. Everyone settled in their little corner of misery. Showing the best of themselves to the world while dying inside. Showing the best of themselves to each other while dying inside. Days and nights shrunk. Encompassed in endless conversations about every minute detail of their days. Only the human need to rest would stop them. Sleep. Wake-up. Repeat. Who would be the first to greet and joke is what they became. They summited to the peak in just a few days. Without as much as a struggle. Seamlessly. They became each other's worlds. Everything revolved around this little dream they had created. But who would be the first to break?
(7). She stares at them. As if opening them would set her up on a course to sure destruction. Maybe it will someday, but not today! Today she looks at her phone and feels him give her a back hug and kiss kiss her neck. He whispers "I love you.." and she believes him. She looks at her phone and hears him get back at her for a joke she made at his expense the night before. She laughs, picks up a pillow and tries to hit him with it. A hopeless venture. He was always stronger, faster, more agile. She looks at her phone today and giggles as he wrestles her to the bed and pins her down.
He really did creep up on her! He did! They had absolutely nothing in common - until they did. Different worlds, different cares, different lives. One act of thoughtfulness led to the blossoming of a love so deeply rooted in honest and genuine friendship. Killing whatever snide notions she had of men left in her. Completely stripping her of the deep-seated anger and disdain that she'd made a part of her all these years. One act of thoughtfulness. A greeting. And a joke.
(7). And so she clicks and scrolls. Before, in another life, she would be afraid. Afraid of what she would find on the other end of the click. Afraid that it would be (0). Afraid of the heartache. Afraid of the unrequited love. Afraid of harsh words spoken in anger that cut deep. Afraid of the end. But not now. She's not afraid to click. She's not putting it off any longer. That click is her play button. It signals the start of a new day of clicks! Of (7), (49), (158). The click allows her to dream. And to love as deeply as she chooses to love.
And she will be allowed to love and allow herself to be loved. Again.
Buzz Buzz. The fuchsia blink on her phone is an alert that he's on the other end. She grabs her phone quickly and swipes up. (7). Seven. That means seven perfectly crafted messages. Seven heartfelt thoughts. Seven things to look forward to.
He crept up on her. Quite literally. Not her type, she had thought. Wait, why did she care, she didn't have a type. She didn't need to have a type. Who needs a type when you don't need anyone at all. When you're done and dusted. Just good all by yourself. Who needs a type when you've thrown in the towel. Retired from the game. When you just don't want to even think that you could love again - trust again. That you could give your heart to another human to destroy, again. That you could even find the pieces of your broken heart that are delicately being held together just so you can remain alive. That you could hand those pieces over to another being and trust that they won't give you back your heart worse than it was?
(7). That's seven more times that she'll feel a touch of warmth and a shiver of cold all at once! Her body will quiver and she'll sink into her bed and hug herself. She'll close her eyes and imagine him there. He'd be staring right into her eyes and she into his. His eyes - so honest. Carrying the pain of years before and baring it bravely before her. She'd place her palm on his cheek, wishing his pain away. As if just the touch of her hand would be the cure.
He crept up on her. By God did he creep up on her! She prides herself in being able to sniff even the slightest whiff of interest from a mile away. She might need to pride myself in something else! There really was nothing to sniff though. It was a greeting. And then a joke. And another joke. And then a string of back and forth - greetings and jokes. They were both world's apart minding their own. Everyone settled in their little corner of misery. Showing the best of themselves to the world while dying inside. Showing the best of themselves to each other while dying inside. Days and nights shrunk. Encompassed in endless conversations about every minute detail of their days. Only the human need to rest would stop them. Sleep. Wake-up. Repeat. Who would be the first to greet and joke is what they became. They summited to the peak in just a few days. Without as much as a struggle. Seamlessly. They became each other's worlds. Everything revolved around this little dream they had created. But who would be the first to break?
(7). She stares at them. As if opening them would set her up on a course to sure destruction. Maybe it will someday, but not today! Today she looks at her phone and feels him give her a back hug and kiss kiss her neck. He whispers "I love you.." and she believes him. She looks at her phone and hears him get back at her for a joke she made at his expense the night before. She laughs, picks up a pillow and tries to hit him with it. A hopeless venture. He was always stronger, faster, more agile. She looks at her phone today and giggles as he wrestles her to the bed and pins her down.
He really did creep up on her! He did! They had absolutely nothing in common - until they did. Different worlds, different cares, different lives. One act of thoughtfulness led to the blossoming of a love so deeply rooted in honest and genuine friendship. Killing whatever snide notions she had of men left in her. Completely stripping her of the deep-seated anger and disdain that she'd made a part of her all these years. One act of thoughtfulness. A greeting. And a joke.
(7). And so she clicks and scrolls. Before, in another life, she would be afraid. Afraid of what she would find on the other end of the click. Afraid that it would be (0). Afraid of the heartache. Afraid of the unrequited love. Afraid of harsh words spoken in anger that cut deep. Afraid of the end. But not now. She's not afraid to click. She's not putting it off any longer. That click is her play button. It signals the start of a new day of clicks! Of (7), (49), (158). The click allows her to dream. And to love as deeply as she chooses to love.
And she will be allowed to love and allow herself to be loved. Again.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Getting UnStuck
I can't buy your love, don't even wanna try.
Sometimes the truth won't make you happy, still I'm not gonna lie.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.
I know I'm far from perfect, nothin' like your entourage
I can't grant you any wishes, I won't promise you the stars.
But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you.
- Emeli Sande, My Kind Of Love
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
My Mother, My Cover
You know I used to think mothers were some type of crazy. My mom especially! There's this one time I remember distinctly, there was no electricity and we lit these small gas lamps in the living room; the ones attached directly to a gas cylinder? Aha. Anyway, so the thing caught fire suddenly in a mild explosion. In a split second my mom had evacuated all of us out of the house and away from danger. Cool huh? Yeah, except she ran back in to try and switch off the gas lamp. She died many years later, randomly. Not from an exploding cylinder. Or a car accident. Or a poisonous snake bite. Or a debilitating disease. She just randomly died.
Besides the point.
Mothers are a covering. They are a warm snuggly blanket on a cold Nairobi July day, sealing you from your hair to your toenails, leaving no part exposed whatsoever. They will talk about you, praise you, promote you and defend you to whomever will listen. They will choose to believe the best of you, never for a moment imagining you would be anything less than what they dreamed you would be, or what they know you are - sometimes what they THINK you are.
A mother - a good mother - is the face of God on this earth. From the moment you are placed in their arms, they see the best of you. Not your scarce hair or wrinkled skin. They see eyes that remind them of their father's and a cute nose. They see purity. They love you exceedingly, abundantly, above all you could ever ask or imagine. And from that moment they cover you. Making sure all anyone ever sees is that cover they've created for you.
A mother is your human. She's your person. She's your guy! You can count on her to be on your side regardless. She'll admonish you in secret, but to the world, she'll present an image of perfection. Never exposing your flaws or faults. Never faltering.
I've been trying this week to do some writing about mothers in a bid to purge the sense of loss and despair we have felt these past three years. Don't mind me. No need to check up on me. I'm good, and if not, I will be.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Sandals In The Sand - Chapter Four
Silence. Darkness. Only the occasional rush of waves onto the sand broke it. A little distance away music played. In bits. Occasioned by the breeze that blew some notes our way. The world was shut out. Silence. Darkness. Waves.
My confident outside didn't betray what I felt inside as we walked up the stairs. Barely an hour earlier I had changed clothes more times than I ought to. Figuring out what 'look' I was going for. Casual-friendly or sexy-flirty? Was he going to open the door to a long lost friend who just wanted to play catchup or to a long lost lover who just wanted to play? I went with casual. Doorbell. Wait.
Silence. Darkness. Waves. He knew. He needed to calm me down. Silence. Darkness. Waves. The tears rolled freely. I should run. I should just get out of this car and run! I wanted to turn back the hands of time. I wanted to go back to that first day. Yes, let's go back to the port. Let's not notice him this time. Let's not get absorbed by his presence. Let's not want to spend every waking minute of every day and night with him. Self, let's walk away. Nay, let's RUN away! And yet I sat on. Staring into the dark sea that was always so blue. Thoughts running through my head. And his.
"Hey!" Oh it's useless! All that confidence I'd built just dissipated. Vanished. I was bubbly all over again. "This is my friend Mo.." Aha! I wasn't a starry-eyed 20 something year old again. I had placed an order for a chaperone. "Hi Mo!" He reached his hand out. Deep baritone. Suddenly I was jealous. That's MY voice. That's MY hand. This is MY... was he? We walked into the sparsely furnished house that was hardly a reflection of his current status. The familiar scent of well-cooked food greeting us as we sat. "I brought you wine!" I had managed common decency. I checked him out. I could see he'd fought like I had. And had settled for casual as well. "Thank you for the wine. What can I offer you?" I'll have you. To go.
"Talk to me." Deep Baritone. "Please talk to me." The pain and helplessness was evident. Silence. Darkness. Waves. I wanted to say it. I wanted to yell it. I wanted to scream it while hitting him!!! "I'm hurting! I am confused! Why?" The pain nearly equalled what I'd felt when my father had died. Deep, intense, unrelenting, endless, hurt. Pain. "Talk to me please." What would I say. Nothing could fix it. Nothing could fix me. Nothing could fix us. I stared forward through the tears. No longer fighting them back. I let go. Silence. Darkness. Waves. Sobs.
"Food is ready actually, want to check it out?" Yeah, I'll check you out. IT! Check IT out. "Sure!" I bounced out of my seat and followed him to the kitchen. The glass of wine had made this near teetotaller very giddy, very fast. Think it had something to do with how quick I drowned it while trying to calm my nerves? He mumbled something as he showed me what he had cooked. I heard nothing. I smelled it. That all too familiar strong masculine scent from all those years ago. I looked up at him. Studied his face... a few kilos later... still good looking. My gaze shifted downward. "It's okay?" Back. "Yes, it's fine. I'll serve it don't worry." He was always a great cook. He looked at me. He drew closer. I saw it coming. "Mo! Food's ready!" I wasn't ready.
 |
"So you two... what's the story?" Several glasses of wine later, we had gone back 12 years. Finishing each other's sentences. Laughing at inside jokes. We were at the beach once more with our canned sodas and our Toyota. Feet on the dashboard. At home with each other. I had barely remembered that Mo was in the room. She didn't know. Well, now she did. "Story? Us? Naaaaah! Just old workmates." I responded. Nonchalance.
"She's my wife. But she ran away from me."
My sandals were deep in the sand.
Tuesday, August 11, 2015
Sandals In The Sand - Chapter Three
A random ringback tone plays on the other end. I pace up and down the sides of the swimming pool almost willing my phone to fall in 'mistakenly'. Why on earth was I making this call? 12 years later no less! Maybe I should hang up before the voice comes through on the other end.
The maroon Toyota made it's way up the road to the beach; a now all too familiar route. It had become our thing. Leave work. Take the scenic route via the beach. Chill out a little. Then head home. The warm breeze from the ocean brushed over my face invitingly. Calling me to the beach for an evening walk. A drink. To watch the sun set. We made light conversation on our way there. Work mostly. And my long list of possible suitors lining up their proposals. From the office driver right up the ladder to the second in command. He laughed like he always did. I couldn't read him. Was he playing the protective big brother or the jealous suitor? I could never tell.
Just hang up darn it! But then if I do, it'll look like I was flashing him wouldn't it? Which is worse? You should never have dialled to begin with! Where's your pride?! I couldn't help it. Plus I'm just saying hi and seeing if he got back okay. Right! The heart and head were at it again. Sssssshhhhh keep it down both of you will you? I held my breath. Practiced my "Hello" in my head as I tried to silence the voices. Shoot! What if he doesn't pick up!
"Do you need to leave soon? Because I don't mind..." I tried to be polite. All the while hoping. "Leave for where?" he interjected almost rudely. "I meant, don't you have some place you should be... it's almost 7.." I added. All the while crossing my fingers, toes and eyes that he had the whole night. "I'm right where I want to be." He didn't disappoint. This was us. Gone were the days when the piece of metal was all I saw. It's glory had dimmed significantly. And though I was aware of it's existence and significance, I had began to deny it's power. But we were just two good ol' pals hanging around after work. Enjoying a canned soda. Discussing the job. Laughing and having a good time. I was a stranger with no one else to see and nowhere else to go. He just needed someone neutral to talk to and hang with.
Right?
"Hello?" deep baritone. "Hey! Hi?" He caught me off guard. The palms were suddenly moist. "Hi!" deep baritone response. Straight. No brouhaha. I fought off the regret. "How are you doing?" nonchalance. "I'm good". flat baritone. Huh? That's it? Is this it? What on earth... maybe he lost my number and doesn't know it's me.
Right?
He was quiet. Quieter than his usual quiet. I was always the chatterbox. He mostly smiled and asked questions. His profession probably demanded of it. But he also appeared a tad weary and subdued. Like like was being drained out of him. I stared at him long and hard that day at the beach. He stared ahead at the waves. I tried again to figure him out. I couldn't. I never did. All I knew what he was there, when he was there. And when he left, he left. "Call it a night?" I managed. "Sure. If you're ready?" deep eyes looked into mine. I held the gaze just long enough to soak them in. "I'm ready." I was so ready. I tried to remember a time I'd wanted someone so bad that I couldn't have. I could only imagine the pop stars on TV who were forever beyond reach. He was right here. He was flesh and blood. So near, and yet so very far.
"It's me!" I added my name just to elicit the usual reaction. I waited to hear the smile in his voice as he said my name like he always did. I waited for the pet names to start checking in. I waited to be asked if I was 'good.' Boy did I wait. "Oh okay. Listen, can I call you back?"
My heart sunk. Lower than it had been before I made the decision to dial that number after ignoring it for 12 years. In a flash, I was the underdog again. I hated being the 'chaser'. I hated the feeling. It's that sinking feeling that had sent me calling and now the darn phone call had taken me right back.
"Okay!" I managed. He hung up.
Sandals were left on the sand.
The maroon Toyota made it's way up the road to the beach; a now all too familiar route. It had become our thing. Leave work. Take the scenic route via the beach. Chill out a little. Then head home. The warm breeze from the ocean brushed over my face invitingly. Calling me to the beach for an evening walk. A drink. To watch the sun set. We made light conversation on our way there. Work mostly. And my long list of possible suitors lining up their proposals. From the office driver right up the ladder to the second in command. He laughed like he always did. I couldn't read him. Was he playing the protective big brother or the jealous suitor? I could never tell.
Just hang up darn it! But then if I do, it'll look like I was flashing him wouldn't it? Which is worse? You should never have dialled to begin with! Where's your pride?! I couldn't help it. Plus I'm just saying hi and seeing if he got back okay. Right! The heart and head were at it again. Sssssshhhhh keep it down both of you will you? I held my breath. Practiced my "Hello" in my head as I tried to silence the voices. Shoot! What if he doesn't pick up!
"Do you need to leave soon? Because I don't mind..." I tried to be polite. All the while hoping. "Leave for where?" he interjected almost rudely. "I meant, don't you have some place you should be... it's almost 7.." I added. All the while crossing my fingers, toes and eyes that he had the whole night. "I'm right where I want to be." He didn't disappoint. This was us. Gone were the days when the piece of metal was all I saw. It's glory had dimmed significantly. And though I was aware of it's existence and significance, I had began to deny it's power. But we were just two good ol' pals hanging around after work. Enjoying a canned soda. Discussing the job. Laughing and having a good time. I was a stranger with no one else to see and nowhere else to go. He just needed someone neutral to talk to and hang with.
Right?
"Hello?" deep baritone. "Hey! Hi?" He caught me off guard. The palms were suddenly moist. "Hi!" deep baritone response. Straight. No brouhaha. I fought off the regret. "How are you doing?" nonchalance. "I'm good". flat baritone. Huh? That's it? Is this it? What on earth... maybe he lost my number and doesn't know it's me.
Right?
He was quiet. Quieter than his usual quiet. I was always the chatterbox. He mostly smiled and asked questions. His profession probably demanded of it. But he also appeared a tad weary and subdued. Like like was being drained out of him. I stared at him long and hard that day at the beach. He stared ahead at the waves. I tried again to figure him out. I couldn't. I never did. All I knew what he was there, when he was there. And when he left, he left. "Call it a night?" I managed. "Sure. If you're ready?" deep eyes looked into mine. I held the gaze just long enough to soak them in. "I'm ready." I was so ready. I tried to remember a time I'd wanted someone so bad that I couldn't have. I could only imagine the pop stars on TV who were forever beyond reach. He was right here. He was flesh and blood. So near, and yet so very far.
"It's me!" I added my name just to elicit the usual reaction. I waited to hear the smile in his voice as he said my name like he always did. I waited for the pet names to start checking in. I waited to be asked if I was 'good.' Boy did I wait. "Oh okay. Listen, can I call you back?"
My heart sunk. Lower than it had been before I made the decision to dial that number after ignoring it for 12 years. In a flash, I was the underdog again. I hated being the 'chaser'. I hated the feeling. It's that sinking feeling that had sent me calling and now the darn phone call had taken me right back.
"Okay!" I managed. He hung up.
Sandals were left on the sand.
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