My body could be exhausted, temples throbbing with warm blood from a long day or whatever but one thing my heart won’t do is pass a random chance to catch strays, not bullets, feelings – to fall in love.
Would it matter if I were marooned to a deserted island, shivering inside a jail cell or sipping an ice-cold Tusker Lite on a brown leather sofa at a dim bar in Amolatar?
Would drunk Langi strangers singing wrong lyrics to Alan Walker’s ‘Lily’ after murdering Sheebah’s ‘Wakikuba’ annoy me enough for this weak heart of mine to resist the ever-so pulling urge to rest my head on this lanky man’s shoulder? Probably not.
After all, he chose to sit invitingly close to me that February night at Kyoga Resort.
In most cases, my head endeavors to put up a fight, to keep this heart from walking straight onto red hot coal – some people call it love, or lust, or a crash, an infatuation, a fling or whatever.
That chilly February night, however, the fighter stood no chance – not because the heart had magically acquired a new trick to fall safer, in love – after one too many bottles served by the waiter whose smile outshone the half moon up in Amolatar skies, my mind was overcome with lenience and some sort of camaraderie, maybe.
There I was, feeling whatever there was to feel, occasionally touching my temples to ascertain I was alive enough because the head had somehow recused itself from the matter.
And that’s a dangerous situation to be in, especially for an adult like myself who doesn’t crave more cares on top of their already laden life.
More Beer and Beating Hearts
He said my eyes sparkled under the transitioning disco lights, I smirked, adjusting the glasses that had hung so low they seemed to want to smell my beer.
The black short shorts I wore invited the 1am coldness in with open arms – not that I didn’t expect it, it’s just that before the party I don’t care about much else other than getting the partying started.
Mr. Man was equally on the edge of ‘daze-gazy land’, breaking from the shell of his usually shy self, inviting me for a dance in the now deserted bar. Oh, how I love deserted bars! Here is my past deserted bar escapade.
For a moment it felt like we were twin flames; laughing in unison about trivial things, reaching for our bottles at the same time and casually stopping motion to listen to the sound of our hearts beating in tandem.
Wondering how quiet the bar was for this to be possible? Go figure.
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To leave or to stay – ‘just a little longer’
It’s a quarter after one (seems quite familiar, Lady A sang it) and the heart is looking at the brain with puppy eyes, walking towards the pit, stealthily.
“Oh, Pesh, this is going to be a night to remember,” Mr. Man’s chilly breath laced with a tinge of Guinness Smooth washed over my exposed neck like lazy current.
“I think we should leave, the beer is getting to your head,” I responded, gulping the last of my then almost tasteless drink.
“It can’t be that late, may I have another dance?” his plea was a winning rebuttal.
“Of course, who cares that neither of us has rhythm,” I said, wearing that cheesy smirk, again.
“We have rhythm, together,” he said, drawing my arms out for a twirl, which I gladly, or should I say drunkenly, did not object.
Pick me, Choose me, Love me
Now, I might have just borrowed this iconic phase from Grey’s Anatomy but it certainly fits the situation.
Outside the bar, the street was peach black save for the area illuminated by the porch light. No vehicle, or motorcycle for this matter, passed by. No strangers wandered around.
It was just us, his hand in mine, standing in front of our dear benevolent waiter, begging him to help us trace our bearings back home, no, back to the quiet town of Amolatar where we had each booked a somewhat decent room to stay the night.
“The only way for you to get back is either walk or ask my boss to drop you. We also have accommodation here, the cottages go for Shs 80,000,” said the waiter, his white shirt still immaculately tucked in.
Long story short, “the boss” was kind enough to drop us at such a small amount, a flimsy excuse of payment considering the huge favor he had done us. I hope to got back to Amolatar and repay his kindness – maybe do round two of the February night.
As we sat through the awfully quiet drive, fingers entwined, Mr. Man whispered a few sweet nothings into my ear. The ending must have been along the lines of “I swear I am not saying this because of beer, I wish I had said it much earlier, maybe then you would believe me.”
“I don’t have to choose you or love you, sometimes it doesn’t happen like that. But tonight has been great, it still is, so don’t ruin it. Don’t trade these five hours of pure bliss for endless possibilities or even maybe impossibilities of what could be,” my head was steadying up from the daze.
As I flung open the door to an unpacked suitcase, an open bag of plantain crisps on the tiny bedside table and the faint scent of my perfume, he reached for me, pulling me into an embrace I wished could last forever.
“Good night, Pesh, I will be thinking of you,” he said, worry in his eyes.
“Laters, good night,” I said, face peering from a half-closed door, watching him fold his arms across his chest, heading for the staircase.
Door lock clicked into place and I fell flat on my back across the bed, knowing that when I wake the next morning, this, whatever it was, would all be as inconsequential as the ones before proved to be.
I am not one with the Cinderella syndrome, expecting a nightly knight to emerge at dawn with a mug of hot chocolate for me, no, but I live in the moment, savoring every second of each minute. Moments are all I call mine.