On the bed of roses of amour
I woke up next to this new character in the long soap opera that my life has become. Sort of like Days of Our Life. I propped up on my left hand on the pillow facing her and studied her sleepy figure. Her tall, slender body lied on its front, her brunette head perched on its side on the white pillow, front hair tucked behind her ears. Sereneness pervaded her fair, keen, intelligent face as she breathed softly.
We shared bed, not hearts, for three months now — heart was out of the pact we made when we entered this relationship.
“I just wanna have fun,” Evelyn said in her thick German accent that first night we kissed. “I have a boyfriend back home who wants to marry me.”
It was more than a statement — it was her only term of engagement. I was happy to oblige.
I found it strange though. Brought up in a relatively conservative society in Africa where women are especially inhibited, I had never had such an offer. Often, we men had to fake love, or at least affection, to gain entry between the legs of the women we lusted after. Here was a twenty-five-year-old lass, whose only wish was to drink to dregs the pleasure life has to offer, telling me to keep sentiments out. Even stranger was we lying spent in each other’s arms after our frequent pleasure rides, and talk about our other dates.
In any case, we were — together. Despite our obvious difference. Or was it because of it? Perhaps it was because of the exotics of my ebony skin — she fancied rubbing my darkness against her milk white skin, kissing my thicker lips, running her fingers through my curly hair etc. Or was it because she desired chin chin that matched the skin color? I never asked.
“How long have you been staring at me like that?” she roused me from my train of thought.
“Ever since you closed your eyes,” I replied.
“Lügner,” she muttered with amusement in her voice.
I gazed into her green, serene eyes in silence as she gazed back at mine.
“Do me a favour,” I mused, “Write me a letter of recommendation.”
“A letter of what?” she asked contorting her face in mild confusion.
“You know, a recommendation letter,” I added in expressionless face.
“I am not your f****** sensei,” she retorted incredulously.
“No, I want your recommendation, you know, one I could show to another girl of my interest, when you leave, when I apply for the position of being her lover”.
Evelyn, who had been looking at me as if I had lost my mind the entire time I was explaining, collapsed into laughter until tears filled her eyes.
“That is very funny,” she managed to say amidst her laughter.
I was not joking.
I gave so much effort and energy into our relationship — the creative energy I invested into making our conversation unique, fun — hours of love making in as selflessly as a man possibly could and all that. All of that was going to go away with her for good. The idea of starting all over again from the scratch did not exactly appeal to me. At thirty-three and with romance and flings with so many girls I cared to count, (the faces of the girls — all the way from my childhood crush, my first ‘girl-friend’ in high school, college multiple dates, all the way to the Egyptian girl I occasionally saw then — flickered on the bemused face of Evelyn), I was fade up with the courtship thing. The whole ritual of accosting a chick, fumbling to spark interest during conversations, carrying that spark to attraction before it dies out, yada yada yada was tedium I could not bear anymore.
Now that Evelyn was leaving in a week’s time, I wanted her testimony of how much of a man I have been to her in every department — intimacy, sense of humour, presence, compassion etc — in as candid as she possibly could in the form of a letter.
I wanted to walk up to a girl with that letter and say, “Hi, I am Gabe. I am interested in you. Here is a letter from my last, er, girlfriend. Go through it and let me know if you are interested”. Period.
I let Evelyn know I was less than joking over the next few days.
“You are just overreacting,” she would say.
To her, the whole experience between us had been like camping. It was so much fun, yet now it was time to break down the camping tent, and go back to her life onto the waiting arms of her boyfriend who wanted to marry her.
On the day of her departure, I was among the five friends who saw her off to Haneda Airport. Evelyn was rather cheerful as she hugged everyone goodbye. We hugged too, long and tight.
“Here,” she said, as we parted, smiling. “Your recommendation letter”. She left.
This is what the letter read:
This is not your recommendation, for you carry that on you every day. Written on every inch of your being in that invisible, cursive feminine handwriting are letters from every girl, every woman who has ever been in your life all the way from the woman who bore you. It is in the warmth of your gaze, tenderness of your being, generosity of your presence. When a real woman comes by, she reads all these code marks left behind by past sororities, like I did the day I let you kiss me and welcomed you to my boudoir.
Originally published at https://kalaharireview.com on October 8, 2019.
