My attraction towards her is solely caused by the imaginations I have of what I’d want to do her on a bed. She doesn’t know this.
She’s in a circle of four girls. They’re all holding red cups with liquor. One of them has a dying cig hanging from her fingers.
I am staring at her from across the room. Between us is a turmoil of loud music, louder banter and sensual dances. It’s been long since she took a sip from her cup. I see her touching her long braids absentmindedly from time to time – same braids I’ve been fantasizing to pull as I take her from behind.
The first time I ever saw her was on Instagram. As I scrolled through the Explore page on a sleepy afternoon, she popped up from nowhere.
I followed her and forgot about it. Days later, she followed back.
We start a typical social media relationship, the ‘acknowledge but don’t talk’ relationship. She likes everything I post, and I like everything she posts. Some people say that you should DM the girl when this happens. But I’ve been down that road before. Once you DM and talk, you’ll want to move the relationship to a more convenient app, say Whatsapp. But when you move there, everything changes and the spark in gone. Conversations get dryer than a gold-diggers’ nunu when they hear you have no money. Texting consistently becomes laborious. And whatever hope you’d harbored of becoming lovers slowly fades away.
So I don’t DM her. But I pray to God every night that we coincidentally meet somewhere, say a party.
As she touches her hair, she turns slightly and looks at me but looks away quick when she finds my dead stare already on her. This continues for a while. We’re both drunk, we’re both enjoying this silly little game.
I tap Buddy -the one that brought me to this party- on the shoulder and ask him if he’d ever approach a group of girls to talk to the one he’d be interested in.
No. He says.
Pussy. I say.
It’s not that! Ni vile you never know how they’ll react. He snaps back.
Sasa you just let a girl you want to talk to slip away because you’re too much of a pussy to talk to her posse? I fume.
I don’t. I wait when she’s alone and attack.
Whatever, man. I want to talk to her. I say as I point to my Instagram paramour.
Eish, unacheza kama wewe leo. He says.
Kama kawa. I say.
I tell Buddy the story of our little online double tapping games. I tell him that I’m sure she knows me because she likes all the ugly close-ups I post. He says maybe. I tell him God has answered my prayer because we’ve met coincidentally how I’ve always wanted. He says maybe, again. I call him a skeptic pussy.
I stand my drunk ass up and walk towards her and her friends. I collide with fellow Drunksmen along the way. My plan is to say hi, and ask to politely ask for a private word with my Instagram paramour.
I see them see me but I’m chilled. If I was sober, I’d have died of nervousness. But Jack Daniels is driving the bus today. So I smile. A killer smile. Insta Paramour smiles back.
Let’s continue this story on Friday. It’s hot and my fingertips are sweating.
2 thoughts to “Party Lovers”
Breath of fresh air
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