If this were a movie, there would be a title card on the screen that says One Month Later
Or thereabouts. Anyway.
I’m at the office window, looking out into Opebi, thinking about the last time I saw her. When she had come to my house, one rainy Sunday evening, making me wonder if it was rain water or tear water streaming down her face.
I watched her that day; trying to hold the yawning gulf where my heart used to be together by a pretense at indifference. I listened to her cries for understanding with an attitude that would have bothered me if I didn’t know I was just faking, mentally wringing my hands and biting my nails.
It was all I could do to not grab and hug her – to not kiss her face like some overexcited dog – but I had made up my mind.
There was nothing more for us.
I’m at the office window, looking out into Opebi. I look – but I do not see. The image in front of my vision is that of a soft-featured face, warm, shy eyes and ready-to-smile lips – lips that seemed to sing about love whenever I kissed them.
That’s me, alright. Lucky at life, unlucky at love.
I turn away and switch the image off.