A Perfect Day For Writing

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SHORT STORY Sept. 25, 2020

Today is not a perfect day for writing.

The weather seems to have her menses, with her coldness one second and hotness the next.

My mind is not working, it keeps taking me to images of you.

My lips are unable to smile at the customer standing, waiting for service.

My hand hands him the receipt and my eyes see the snicker on his face as he walks away.

"I met one of those attitude-filled Mpesa Ladies today " I imagine he will say to his girlfriend when he gets home, or his boyfriend (you never know these days).

It is not a perfect day for writing, yet here I am, writing about you.

There are things only a hand can type, there are others only a brain can think.

That fine line is crossed when my hands are on my keyboard and my brain on you.

You love me, that I do know.

You do, because otherwise why would you get me this job at your sister's dingy Safaricom shop?

You do, because otherwise why would you buy my mother those black Ngoma rubbers and that beautifully colored kitenge?

You do, because otherwise, why would you kiss me like that, why would you look at me like that, why would you hold me like that?

Today is not a perfect day for writing,

I repeat.

The weather is still having it's menses.

It's cold now. I shiver and hold the woolen Massai shuka closer to my chest.

I shiver, and it's because of the cold.

It's also because of last night, because of the memories.

You don't love me, that I don't know.

You don't, otherwise, why would you get so upset when I was talking to that guy who came to the shop last week?

He was a customer, and I was trying not to be one of those attitude-filled Mpesa ladies, and I smiled at him.

You don't love me, otherwise, why won't you trust me? Is it too much to ask? Is loyalty such a foreign substance to you that you cannot see it when it's right in front of you?

It is not a perfect day for writing at all, yet I can't stop my hands.

My hands want what they want. They want to move to the letters on the keyboard, to command them, to master them, to drain my soul of these emotions, and pour them onto the screen.

The weather is still having it's menses, it's hot now.

I remove the Massai shuka and carefully, absent-mindedly I fold it.

I wince a little, and my eyes fall on the redness of my wrists.

You don't love me, that I don't know.

You don't, otherwise, last night, why would you hold my wrists with such anger even when I told you were hurting me?

Did I accidentally stepping on your right leg make you that angry?

Was it really such a big deal?

I told you sorry did I not?

And I mean, we have been together for months, you should be used to my clumsiness.

After all, it's what brought us together in the first place remember?

Today is a perfect day for writing.

The weather has stopped bleeding.

It's hot now.

I love it when it's hot.

A customer is standing in front of the counter.

"Deposit," she mutters, her eyes glued on her phone.

I smile.

You do love me, that I know.

"Number? "I ask.

"12 15 22 4," she says.

You do love me, that I do know.

You do, otherwise, why would you be here, standing in front of your sister's shop, acting as a customer, and spilling out the numbers to our secret love code?

by Amanda Nechesa 38

Comments

  • macharya

    May 25, 2020, 8:03 a.m.

    immersive, the contrasting statements add a nice allure to the piece. its really wonderful.

    Reply
  • Amanda

    May 28, 2020, 5:40 a.m.

    Thank you Macharia 

    Reply

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