Love, Maybe - 1. Complications

Tonight on Twitter some hilarious men were going through their past heartbreaks, how they reacted, how it felt & as previously stated, it was fucking ridiculously funny, but all true & what I found beautiful about the open discussion was the willingness to be as honest as possible, a sentiment that only reflects growth of the best kind.

So I thought of my own previous pain & suddenly recalled just how much I had written during those volatile times & discovered a slew of brilliant phrased dissertations on the situation in question that I now deem fit enough to present on this platform as a series.

I wrote everyday, as I usually do when utterly emotional & I am thankful for this habit, it again enlightens me, it reflect how far I have come emotionally & how brilliant this balance feels in comparison to that struggling darkness.

I am a very interesting character to say the least.

The series is tentatively entitled 'Love, Maybe'.

I'll be switching from third person to first person at will, so keep that in mind as well.

 Feel free to share your thoughts.

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December 2010 

He was having a party.
He was honestly.
Having a party.

She walks up to the house, shades on despite the darkness around, already prepared to lie about whatever emotion this turn of events incited, completely ready to fake a smile even though she was incredibly unhappy and instead marvel at all the cars parked in his driveway.

Her resolve strengthened as she got closer to the noise and since her sunglasses were so dark she could barely tell which of the great tall masses belonged to her. But she did see O…but more importantly O’s weed .

As she placed one foot in front of another she realized that she had no idea what to say to him. She wasn’t sure which route she should take, left or right? Sad or angry? Happy even? Apologetic? Stubborn? Apathetic?

Which of the roads would lead her in the right direction? But as she took a step forward, inhaled the marijuana and took a good look at the ‘love of her life’ a kind of placid amusement engulfed her.

He was pressing some buttons on his phone instead of looking at her, the same phone she had been calling no less than an hour before.

The same call he had ignored.

Placid amusement was the perfect way to describe it. She took another puff and handed the spliff back to it’s owner, turned to walk away when he called to her. Fighting the urge to burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation she had placed herself in, she placated his request and moved closer to him.

Looking up at her with those contact lenses she now absolutely detested, he whispered.

“Are you alright?”

She smiled in return and said;

“I’m cool”

He was lucky there was weed. Very, very lucky.

She turned around and went inside the house to put her bags down, placing her heavy luggage on a chair in the living room, she stopped moving for a moment then picked up her laptop, unsure of what to do, what if she went into the room and all her shoes had been packed? What if he didn’t want here there anymore? What would she do to hurt him? What could she do?

Her phone rang, ‘Shake Zulu’ it read.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, you cool? You home?”

It was her boss, her mentor, her father calling to check on his money maker. She had just come from the office, and had spent most of the time during her fitting for the next days photo shoot pleading him for advice on what to do in her love life. She laughed a little and replied.

“Yeah, I’m cool, but get this. I pull up to the house, and he’s having a party”

There was silence for a spilt second.

“He’s a fucking tosser, he’s playing games man! Lose that! You know what? Enjoy that party yeah, eat as much as you can, drink as much as you can just have fun yeah? Let him think it’s all cool, then fucking leave…”

She laughed loudly at this rant, picked up her bag and transported it to his bedroom. Opening the door she fought back the laughter that threatened to come out at all the clothes that were neither hers or his, strewn across his bed.

He continued on, when she had cried on his shoulder he had been quite plain in saying that she was basically focusing her attention on things that didn’t really matter, her mind should be on work, on her art, on her talent as both a writer and a model, on things that would never make her feel this way.

He told her that she had to protect herself better than she was doing at the moment, told her that she was too valuable for this. She was an artist, he said, and she was wasting her time and attention on something that was making her unhappy and in turn destroying her art.

She had agreed of course, and she knew deep down that was where the fault lay, she hadn’t been able to write, she hadn’t been able to work, too much free time on her hands and nothing productive had come of it.. And that was how she managed to convince him to give her one of the companies Mac keyboards she was so deftly using at this present moment in time.

“So don’t feel bad yeah?”

He continued.

“He’s a European bloody tosser and you’re a goddess, bare mans will be coming after you soon you know? Everything happens for a reason alright? You know I got mad love for you sweetie, I’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”

She nodded and whispered back.

“Bye Daddy”

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He had left, they’d had a conversation where he had played the wounded spoilt prince quite brilliantly, acting all injured and hurt as if he hadn’t done anything wrong. He had still left. Gone with his friends, even though they did need to speak, even though there was currently a huge gaping hole in their young relationship, he had still gone, because she would be there when he got back right?

That might’ve been the real reason she had left in the first place, to create some sort of urgency within him, some sort of need for her within him that she didn’t see anymore, he had become used to her, so he could leave and come back without a thought to where she would be. She’d become a tad too predictable.

After all she had taken time off, regardless of it being holidays at the office, she was still a model and could be busy every day of the week if she chose too, but she hadn’t chosen to she had chosen to spend it with him, to learn more about him, to love more about him but he hadn’t given her that time.

“He’s a fucking tosser”

As soon as the words had come out of her mouth the slow realization of how fruitless they were came upon her. If he was such a complete tosser, why was she still there? Was it premature to just say “Fuck it” and move on? But wasn’t she in love with him? Or in love with whoever he really was, this party him, this ‘we need to talk’ but still leaves for Twist him, wasn’t at all attractive, was there hope still? Or should she just leave?

She never liked hassle. She never liked trouble, and he was stressing her out. Whoever this nigga was, was stressing her out, and she didn’t like stress. And aside from the huge zit this had gotten her she didn’t see any plus signs or bonuses.

He had ignored her calls, cause he was having a party. A fucking party! It was always about his friends, some party, some venue, he hadn’t made the same sacrifice she had. And so when she told him she had to work the next day, the look of displeasure on his face felt very satisfactory.

And she wouldn’t share her art with him, right now she couldn’t, she didn’t trust him to betray her for one of his 19038940854936789526758965069854389475489 “close” friends.

It felt like she wasn’t dating just him anymore, it felt like she was dating the whole city of Accra. She never told people what she was doing or where she was going, or who she was with, but it seemed as though he was always answering the question.

She hoped to be the most important.

But she wasn’t.

At least that’s what it felt like. 

So she would take her time back, and fall back in love with her work. She adored him, she worshipped him, but her art never hurt her, or replaced her with another, and her art didn’t ignore her phone calls and throw fucking pool party’s instead.

Her art was eternal.