Evans is reasonably crazy , read this and you’ll understand why we are crazy about this fictional piece.


 

‘I hope we can still be friends.’

‘I hope so too.’

I immediately realize this is not the response she is looking for. She seeks reassurance, the kind they offer in films and books, the ‘I promise’ kind, but I have none of that to offer. I don’t want to remain friends with her, if I’m being honest. I don’t see how that will work. I look up at her. Jesus. Why so damn pretty? Her mercilessly enchanting eyes – large, dark and sinfully slanted – are canopied by perfect eyebrows, and I swear I’ve never seen lips more perfectly formed. The lip gloss I love so much is what she has on, adding an extra layer of difficulty to this already unpleasant ordeal. For a second I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. She stares at me and breaks into a very tired, nervous smile, and says, ‘Well I hope I’m that person you choose to go to the movies with once a while.’ My heart jumps. The pain pangs are back in full force.

***

We are at the cinema. She is moving gently atop me, in circular-upward movements, arms resting on the seat in front of her. We sort of are still following the movie, honestly. At least as much as we can while my bulk is filling her up . Skirts are man’s greatest invention, I think to myself, trying hard not to nut. The cinema isn’t quite empty, there are a few people scattered in the middle row, and though perched at the very back in the darkest corner, we panic whenever there is movement in front of us, or when someone new enters the hall. We pause, holding our combined breath as a man who has just walked in rather purposefully, heads towards the back row, and relax when he picks a seat just two rows ahead. We resume our dance. The rush is amazing. I slide my fingers down her mound and massage her clit with her wetness. A moan escapes her unwittingly, and she cups her hand over her mouth in a flash. The man who just sat down ahead of us turns, but can’t seem to make us out. We stifle giggles. Jennifer Aniston, meanwhile, is making a fool of herself on the screen. She really should take on other roles.

***

I usually go to the cinema alone. It’s my safe space, my happy place. People are a bothersome distraction. Yet it seems to be the only place I can suggest when I ask someone out on a date. I guess it’s because this is where I feel most comfortable? I dunno. Really though, I do vehemently detest going to the movies with people.

Pamela is the exception. I love going with her. She is almost more intense than I am when I’m watching movies, and man, that’s something. That truly is something.

***

We swore at each other a lot. Before, when we first met how many years ago, I couldn’t even say ‘shit.’ Pamela told me it was okay to swear. You say these things in your head anyway, she argued. She laughed at me when I said ‘shoot,’ or when I did my very worst and said ‘screw you.’ We called each other names, dissed each other all the damn time. I’ve never said ‘fuck you’ more times to anyone than I have to her. But they were never seen as insults, always as terms of endearment. Maybe when I see a shrink he or she will tell me how unhealthy it is to be called a fucking idiot or a complete fucking asshole all the time by the person you are in love with. Fuck the shrink in advance. I loved it. We loved it. We were comfortable with it.

***

We are at church. Youth service. I have just laid hands on some stranger and he is writhing all over the floor. I feel a surge of something inside me and place my right hand on the forehead of another girl who has made it to the front. She starts to scream. I can see Pamela at the other side of the room, pacing up and down and hurling tongues fit to light the whole building up on their own. The whole room is crazy, and I do not understand half of what is happening, but it’s happening alright. Later, after things have calmed down, people come out to say things like they’ve been healed of their illnesses, and someone says he received the Holy Ghost there and then. Well, praise Jesus! Pamela leaves the church premises with her family. I stay awhile at the youth church and pray in the small room by the washroom where we keep church supplies, and which doubles as the prayer secretary’s office of sorts, my office. I go home alone, and when I finally crawl into bed I’m exhausted. I dream about the expected: me splitting Pamela’s vagina in two just a couple of hours before today’s powerful youth service, in the small room by the washroom where we keep church supplies, and which doubles as the prayer secretary’s office of sorts, my office.

* * *

We are at the hospital. My mum has just been wheeled into the emergency room. Angela, the nurse we have grown accustomed to, assures me everything will be fine. I should be breaking down in tears, but I can’t. My chest feels tight, I can’t breathe. Pamela is right next to me of course, and has my head cradled in her arms. I choke on my saliva and sputter. She pats and rubs my back the way my mum used to when I was little and had a cough. My mother will die. I feel it. This time she will not make it. The tears finally begin to fall. Pam pulls me up and takes the tears with her lips. Her eyes are watery too – she cannot stand to see me in such pain, I know. She’s also come to love my mother deeply, so this is hard for her as well. We find a supply closet, and fuck inside. The tears are streaming heavily down now. I turn her around and thrust as hard and as fast as I can. She doesn’t moan at all. I break down on top of her as I cum. I can feel it, my mother is gone.

* * *

It’s July. She’s tired of me. She lets me know. She doesn’t think she can do this anymore. She says I take her for granted, toss her up and down like her heart is made of paper. I retort, and try to defend myself. She will have none of it. She storms out of my room. I don’t attempt to chase after her. I know she is right. We both love each other, but what the fuck else do I want? What the fuck am I looking for? I’m all over the place. Doubting everything, uncertain of anything, I’m fucking insecure as shit. I want her, but I don’t. But then I do. What the fuck is wrong with me?

* * *

Two weeks have passed since the fight. I pull the covers off me – it’s getting a little too warm – and stare at her lithe nude form, finding a stray strand of her hair and twirling it between my fingers. I love her. She stirs, looks up at me slightly groggily, and smiles.

Looks like I did the sleeping today.

Yup, looks like it.

She draws me in and sucks my soul out with her lips the way only she knows how to. Looks like it’s time for Round Two.

* * *

We are at the food court. It’s Friday, and the mall is packed tighter than the bills of cash stashed in my miserly idiot of a father’s wallet. It feels like it’s just me and her though. That shrill, ringing sound you get in your head like your tympanum is giving technical feedback is all I can hear. I try to make sense of what Pamela has been saying for the past thirty minutes. She’s sorry…she’d hoped it wouldn’t ever come to this…she just had an abortion…she hopes I’m not mad…she took the after pill she swears…she always takes the after pill but still…she couldn’t tell me because I’d freak…she knows I don’t want children…this is her third abortion…the others happened earlier…this time she used her fees…she wouldn’t ask me if she didn’t need the money…the other times she had savings…she was expecting some money to make up…person disappointed…she really didn’t want me involved…the other two abortions were mine as well…

Did she say abortion?

I can feel my soul wither and die, my heart sunken to the floor already. I can vaguely make out her voice saying it’s okay, that she’s okay. All I can think about is how I was sure I always pulled out on time.

* * *

I’ve met this other girl. She’s perfect for me. She ticks all my boxes. Well not all of them, I mean who ever does, but she ticks all the important ones, and a lot of the quirky ones too. I’m obsessed with the thought of her for now, and I honestly feel I can fall for her easily. She’s not as intense as Pamela. She’s more logical, less dramatic. She’s not as artsy, but she paints, and is very good. I can feel her work, and that’s amazing. The first time she showed me her pieces I asked her why she didn’t take painting up professionally. She chuckled and put them away. She had been nervous to show them to me, but I could tell she was beaming inside because I loved them. And I truly did. She is perfect. She says no sex until she’s ready, and that will probably be marriage. She’s trying to be a good Christian girl, with God’s help she always adds. She gives me hand jobs though, and lets me suck on her tits. They are truly divine. I hope I can say ‘fuck you’ to her freely, the way I did with Pam.

* * *

Pamela has taken this well. I feel like I’m the reason the ‘Men are trash’ statement was made in the first place. She just aborted what maybe could have been my third child not too long ago. And here I am, doing this. I’m such an asshole. Technically speaking we were not dating, so this is not a break up per se. Technically she always knew what I was looking for. It hurt her that she fell short of my stupid ideals. I always told her she was more than enough, just for someone else. That hurt her more. I tried to ignore some of the burning issues, but our lives were headed in completely different directions, and trying to merge our increasingly divergent paths had been hell. It was possible, but it would be extremely difficult, and some crucial stuff would have to give. At a point she suggested not going to grad school where she had applied anymore; at a point I said I wouldn’t mind having kids. Lies. Why we do this to ourselves I do not know.

* * *

The movie statement has shaken me. I’m suddenly thankful we are in public. ‘It’s for the best,’ I say, knowing that it truly is. She knows it too. I love her to bits, she knows that, but I can never be with her, not honestly anyway. Sometimes I think she flirts with the idea of that situation, and maybe actually sanctioning it; that she’d rather let me cheat with any woman who fits this fuckingly senseless archetype of who I say I can only be with, than let me go completely. I can see it in her eyes sometimes. But I would never let her do that to herself. No one is worth that, especially not a useless motherfucker like myself. I give her a final hug, as the Uber she requested finally arrives, and start to walk away. She calls out to me one last time, ‘Sedi…’

* * *

We are fucking in the backseat of the Uber. The driver must definitely be in shock. Somehow he continues driving, and doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s a voyeur. None of this makes sense.

 


Written by Evans Kwami Kafui Offori

To see more on Evans and what hes up to check his twitter or his blog