* * * *
He found out eventually—of course he did.
I wasn’t as careful as I thought I was, or maybe part of me silently wanted to get caught so I wouldn’t have to be the one to end things.
We hadthefight. The tears. The accusations.
He called me a loser, a leech, a coward.
And he was right. One hundred and ten percent.
He exclaimed it, as he tore my apartment apart in a murderous rage, and I watched on unperturbed, that I’d wasted four years of his life.
I couldn’t even argue withthat.
* * * *
Since then, ten solid years past, I’ve had several heart-wringing—what do I call them, surely—situationships? Flings? A series of smart-mouth men who meant something for a while, but never quite enough in the end. That I’d met them, felt that initial spark, rode the wave for a few weeks, months, and thenfledright when things started to getreallyserious was upsetting.
I know it now, that I alone sabotage it. Sometimes actively, by picking fights and by slowly pulling away. Sometimes passively, by simply not showing up emotionally anymore. By keeping one foot out the door. And by going back to the juicy dating apps, back to the cool Kilimani bars, back to the easy anonymous pleasures of bodies veiled in prolonged darkness.
My four closest friends—Rio, Luke, Timo, and Saich—tell me point-blank when zonked that I’m commitment-phobic. Aromantic, even.
My Meridian Hospice therapist, Doctor Wendy Wandia—yes, I have a therapist—insists I’m a control freak who’s afraid of intimacy, that the casual sex is a way of staying in control, of never having to be truly vulnerable with another person ever.
My reallynicecousin Nice Njeri—my florist-mum Mercy Muthoni’s sister Sylvia Wambui’s daughter and the only family member I’m out to—says I just haven’t met the right person yet; and that when I finally do, everything will click into place and I’ll suddenly understand what all the fuss is about.
Me?
I think they’re all partly right and all partly wrong.
Why?
Because I’m, without a doubt, a jovial and sociable guy; and the thought of spending the rest of my life alone like some hastily ostracized monk totally and utterly terrifies me.
I look at couples my age and I’m filled with this envious depressive ache. They’re lucky, blessed really, to have someone to come home to. Someone who knows their stories, understands their fears, condones their stupid little habits. Somebody who’s ready to hold their hand whenever things get hard, to celebrate them whenever things go right.
Not forever and ever per se, but there for the long haul atthe very least.
I want that. I really, genuinely,honestlywant that at some point.
But I also want the other thing. Liberty. Variety.Spontaneity.
The electric thrill of totally unfamiliar hands on my body. The validation of being desired—shamelessly, desperately—by someone—anyone—other than myother. The escape from the immense and intense boredom…from routine, from domesticity, from servitude. From the slow yet comfortable suffocation brought on by the bloodless mess that’s coupledom.
And I don’t quite know if it’s possible—practical—to have both.
What I know for now is this: either I’m wired wrong, or I just haven’t figured out the right configuration for it, or—and this one scares me shitless—I’m slouching here scared stiff of Horace Salbabi, the magnificent and well-endowed Maa man in my bed, hoping for a miracle that’s not coming, chasing some treasure that quite simply doesn’t exist.
Running into Her by Feral Sephrian
Maddie was riding high on her success, the feeling amplified by adrenaline fueling her flight response. She had to run before Nora realized what she did. It served her right for everything she had put Maddie through—waiting until the day before they renewed their lease together to say she had found someone else and Maddie had to get out by the end of the week—but in hindsight Nora was a powder keg Maddie should have stopped sitting on a long time ago. Maddie had barely made it out of the apartment as Nora and her new hussy got home, and it could be days until Nora went to check that drawer, or mere minutes. She hadn’t received a barrage of furious texts yet, so that was a good sign.
And of course, the moment she thought it, her phone buzzed like crazy in her pocket. It wasn’t her call ringer, because Nora never wanted to actually talk on the phone to her, just send her messages with vague tones that Maddie rarely interpreted correctly. The tone of these messages was loud and clear. Nora knew what Maddie had stolen, and she would make Maddie’s life hell until she got them back.
Maddie kept running. Or rather, she hurried through the streets with the pace of someone trying not to miss a bus, clutching to the strap of her messenger bag. The sidewalks were crowded enough that actually running would draw too much attention, even if she could manage not to slam into anyone who accidentally stepped into her way. Nora’s texts grew more threatening the longer Maddie didn’t answer. Then came the text that made Maddie’s heart plummet: Nora revealed she could track Maddie’s phone, and she knew the exact street Maddie was on.
So far no one had gotten back to Maddie about coming to back her up. She had reached out to everyone who mightbe available right now. With that threat from Nora, Maddie reluctantly switched her phone off in hopes it would turn off whatever tracker app was in it. She would just have to keep booking it back to Bea’s apartment, or try to hide in a café bathroom, or something. Despite the teeming crowd around her, she suddenly felt very alone and vulnerable.
