“I have a boyfriend.”

He moves closer as if he wasn’t close enough for comfort. I can hardly describe the predicament I was in, pushed to a corner in his bedsitter which he probably considered ‘the bedroom’.

“I know.”

what?! Why is this not working? Why didn’t I see this coming? It should have worked.

I am the girl whose face you’d skip right over, the one who stands in the back row of group pictures, slouching, looking away; the one who smiles and nods at things she can’t quite hear and hopes that will be good enough. I never know the right thing to say, not even in my own head and half the time, if I do manage to say something, people ask me to repeat myself, because my voice is low and gravelly and strange-sounding that they can’t hear me or understand what I’m saying. I used to think I’m unique – unique in a good way.

Like my mother always said: “tigana nake, oyu ti ta Shiru, anapenda kukaa kwa nyumba akiona Van Damme.”

Now I’m socially awkward. That’s why I plan my conversations before they even happen. I’ve gotten good at that. It’s probably why I thought this would work.

Chair, table, lamp, there’s a window with white curtains. I try to look everywhere except at him. His eyes are dark and beautifully so. He’s so close; I can almost feel his lips on mine. My best friend, my voice of reason, would tell me ‘kuwa serious’ a girl like you deserves to be wooed. But she is not here. I am. And so is he.

He is lingering, giving me time to stop him, to push him off and probably say something vulgar. But his lips… they seem so full and tempting from this angle. Maybe just one kiss then I’ll leave. Kiss and run. (My other predetermined and clearly not well thought out solution) Our lips are touching now. He plants a soft kiss on my lips, simple enough only to caress, then pulls back. I’ve been kissed before but never like this. I didn’t even get the chance to put my hands on his face, or touch his hair. I need more.

She parts her lips, a clear sign of the raging desire within. He waits no longer. He leans in…

Now they were on his bed and her dress was on the floor. She expects him to tag at her nipple like every man before him has done. She expects him to tag hard enough to stifle a reaction from her. I nearly lost my nipple once, men are crazy. lol. Instead, he trails her neck with soft kisses hardly demanding a reaction. Adorning her body, leaving a trace of desire as he explored.

She wants to savour this precious moment and lose herself by his mere touch. She wanted to. That much is true. But love was getting in the way. It wasn’t the first time; it probably wouldn’t be the last. I’m not a fan of love myself and neither was she, but facts are facts. She was in love.

This whole time she’d let her youth and folly guide her. To her life was very simple. Pain. Pleasure. Profit. At least, that’s how it was before she met him- the love of her life. I wonder what he would think of her now, in another man’s bed, literally giving fucks and for free for that matter while she still claimed to love him. Picking up my tiny possessions,“ I have to go…”I don’t give him time to respond, I leave. I’ll deal with my hair and the creases on my dress later.

She doesn’t stop to look at him and his seductive eyes, she can’t. She doesn’t want to see what rejection looks like, she doesn’t want to remember what she’s done. Poor young man! She wants to look herself in the mirror tomorrow and think God is good and so am I.

“When last did I have sex?”

She frowns because she can’t remember. “Merde!” Love had reduced her to a pile of zero orgasms. In a rare moment of self-pity, she’ll sip her coffee, rock her body to and fro and pray the sun shines brighter tomorrow.