*Michelle is extremely pretty in person. There’s a pinkness on her lips that beg to be caressed by mine. And it goes perfectly with her light complexion, light like a Latte from an overpriced coffee shop. Or Megan Markle. And her dress, oh her dress! It’s a skimpy red one that hugs her proper. Because of this, her round perky breasts protrude lusciously. My attention often shifts towards them. Sadly, I can’t see her bum. But from how her hips bulge, I bet whatever’s behind there is something magnificent.
*The girls are skeptical. But not Michelle. She knows me. My Instagram close-ups are engrained at the back of her mind and there’s nothing she can do about it. I feel bad for her because I take terrible, terrible close ups. She accepts to talk to me privately. Those ugly close-ups came through. I’ll be right back, she tells her friends. We move to the side, next to a couple that’s making out viciously. They should get a fucking room. “I had a pickup line I wanted to use but y’all were so cold.” I start, in a manlier way this time. “Oh, sorry about that.” She says in a warm, reassuring tone. “So can I still tell it to you?” “Yes.” She answers with a smile. My confidence is now over the roof. “Alright. Do you know CPR?” I ask laughing because I find pickup lines hilarious. “No. Why?” She’s laughing too. “Because you take my breath away.” We laugh. She says she doesn’t know CPR. I tell her she doesn’t take away my breath basi. She laughs again. A soft warm laugh that would make you hot soup when you have a flu. We talk on. I am drawn to her. I cling on to her voice; every word, every story she tells. I laugh at every joke, even the bland ones that insult the institution of comedy. Her friends -who’d come to check on her previously, twice – had now stopped after Michelle had told them to. “Do you smoke weed?” I ask her. “No. Why? You have some?” “Yes. And I want to smoke now. Zangu zinashuka.” “Sawa.” She says. “I’m going to smoke outside. Join me.” She agrees.
*There are no stars tonight, only a lonely gibbous moon that sits on top of our heads. We are seated at the veranda by the entrance of the house. There’s music and loud drunk banter behind us. The door is slightly open but someone shuts it from inside and shouts angrily, Mjinga mgani ameacha mlango wazi na vile kuna baridi! He’s drunk as a fish. The music and loud banter are now muffled. It’s serenely quiet outside except for a frogs and crickets and howling dogs from a distance. I light up my blunt and take a long puff. I feel the smoke go directly to my brain. Michelle blows the smoke away, says she’s never liked the smell of weed. I call her an old stuck up Adventist woman. (Yes, we’re there already). She calls me a pothead with dying brain cells. Her sense of humor tickles my genitals. I smoke away as we talk till I feel weightless, like I’m floating around space -that’s how I know I’m high- then I put it out. “You never DM’d me on Instagram. Why?” She asks. I tell her my theory on DMs. That if I did, we would have ended up as just numbers on our contact list. Numbers that we wouldn’t really care for but would be too afraid to delete. I also tell her how much I’d prayed and hoped that we’d meet coincidentally. “So you were willing to risk not ever talking to me with the hope of us meeting somewhere random?” “Yes. I’m a risk taker like that.” I say jokingly as I get lost in her lips for the umpteenth time tonight. “I see. And what other risks would you take, Mr. Risk Taker?” There’s a tone she uses asking this. A tone with heavy subliminal hints and underlying seduction. Men know this tone. Girls use it when they’re tipsy and into you. It’s a tone that stroke’s every man’s ego and my ego is no exception. This tone also acts a dare. A subtle dare. A sexy dare. And I know what she’s daring me tonight. Under the lonely moon, I lean in for a kiss. She kisses back. *Cue cinematic fireworks in the background as camera pans out slowly*