We did not
have chairs. We did not have a table. We did not even have cups or real plates.
The bed was bare, but for a mattress and I had continued to put off buying “real”
bed sheets or a blanket. I only used a light duvet. It was a room I did not
expect to spend much time in and did not, until you.
I have
never loved anyone like I loved you in that room.
I remember
everything that happened in that room. From the first time you came to visit
with your friend, your ever so discreet friend who retreated to the compound so
we could talk. To the time you came to sleep over, then stay.
The first
time thoughtless, not daring to ask you to come and see my room until you
asked, “Where do you sleep?” Me clueless that my preferred sparseness of
furnishing had even an aesthetic name (minimalism) hesitant, until you alarmed
me, “Maybe you have a girl you’re hiding there?”
I had
thought you’d snort derisively when you saw it and when you had said, “I like
it. I love the space. I love the airiness. This is so wonderful.” I had turned
to look at you, studying your face for the suppressed pity smile.
I did not
expect you to squeal with delight, racing to the window, “Oh my God, your window
looks into the forest!” I thought girls were supposed to be terrified of
snakes, caterpillars and other crawlies that dropped from trees into my room.
No, you were into animals more than I ever was, armed with details like sports
fans with their statistics, “The more you know, the less you have to fear. Fear
is ignorance.”
I thought
it beyond ridiculous how excited you were about my cheetah print notebook
present, “That’s my favourite, favourite animal! How did you know?”
Were you
real?
I kept
looking for your flaws, hugging your softness into my embrace, kissing your
melting lips, drinking together straight from that White Horse bottle (I began
to tell myself, ‘This girl could be dangerous.’) You know, I’ve not forgotten
one bit of our love making. How could I? There are worlds and truths I’m still
trying to reclaim you gave me arched back shattering glimpses of, known then
lost.
I now know
why I lost them. I know why I lost you. I know finally.
I knew when
a cheetah print backed notebook spilled into my lap from the envelope left for
me at the reception at my office. I knew, at last, I had lost you.
You once
asked me, back to me, in my arms by the window, “What do you really think of
me?”
I’m
answering.
