16th August, 2015 Writers

He doesn’t touch me. He finds me. Every time.

I know the taste of every one of his fingers and he knows just where to place them. There are parts of me only he knows. Secrets my body won’t tell me, only him. This afternoon like every other epic afternoon is hot, the humid Lagos heat saunters into the room like it owns the place. I’ve been around since 9am and we have already had breakfast twice. Hot coffee and sardine sandwiches to wake us up and a million conversations later, we have almost conquered one large tub of iced cream with plantain chips. Iced cream is our shared weakness.

I am gazing at the ceiling, silently cursing at the heat. Suddenly he sits up and the shaky bed jolts me out of my daydream. He is looking at me like that again, like I am Krishna and there is no death, just forever. He takes iced cream out of the tub and places it in the deep of my neck. I move closer. Because he finds me. And we all want to be found.

I feel him shudder as he kisses the vanilla off of my neck. I can’t find his fingers, just roaming lips. On my throat and then on my lips. I kiss him back, and as I close my eyes I feel his breath on my eyelids.

And then his fingers. They are on my breasts. Finally.





Abuja, Nigeria
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