He stood behind her as she unlocked the door. He was at least three feet taller than her, his presence filling the narrow space of the landing. She fumbled quietly with the lock until it finally gave way with a jerk. He offered to help, but before he could, she pushed the door open with her short, red, uneven fingers, revealing a room that smelled like her—clean, warm, freshly bathed.

She smiled at him. “I don’t know why you wanted to escort me upstairs,” she said, almost laughing. “But thank you.”

She lifted her head to take in his face. He had grown his beard. He was bulkier now. More manly. She wanted—badly—to pull him inside, lay him down on her bread-like, worn-out mattress, and make the sweetest, most tender love with him. Jack Harlow’s “Hello Miss Johnson” or Kendrick Lamar’s “u” would play quietly in the background. Her peripheral vision caught the Immaculate Conception wallpaper hanging above her bedframe, and she whispered the Jesus Prayer.

“Shey, have you called an Uber?” The words slipped out—one of those mumbling, stammering moments that came when her thoughts refused to align.
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s downstairs.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before he reached for her, pulling her close. He positioned her head deliberately against his chest so she could hear the frantic thrumming of his heart. He had loved this woman for nearly half a decade. What was stopping him now? What was he afraid of?

The Uber called, the impatient curses dragging them back to earth. She stepped away. They both laughed.
“See you again?” she asked.
“See you again,” he said. Then, softer, “Or never.”
“Or never.”
He smiled.

She closed the door slowly, leaving him alone in the brightly lit staircase. He almost knocked—almost confessed everything right there, maybe even proposed. He didn’t want to lose her again. Not now. Not ever. He rested his forehead against the door, plotting, planning, envisioning.

On the other side, her back pressed to the wood, she clutched her chest, struggling to breathe. It was in his eyes. It was in theirs.

She didn’t know how long she stood there—maybe five minutes. The room wasn’t dishevelled. The flowery blanket she had used since secondary school lay spread across the bed, heavy with nostalgia. She could offer it to him. Short, but enough to wrap them tightly. They might not make love—just sit together, relish each other’s presence like they always did. She would wake up, warm the jollof rice, and they would eat. He would thank her, take his bath, and they would hold each other tightly, knowing they might never meet again.

She peeped through the peephole and saw him descending the stairs. His phone rang again. She flung the door open and ran after him, barefoot.

He was already far down when she reached the bannister. He looked up, phone pressed to his ear. This was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen in her life.

He nearly dropped the phone as he rushed back upstairs, colliding into her. They held each other fiercely. Her hands circled his waist as his slid firmly behind her back. He then lowered his bristly beard to her fine, firm, bespectacled face and kissed her—slowly, lovingly, without restraint.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Chelaxy Designs on Unsplash