Honestly Kola, I’m not the marrying type.
Those were my first thoughts when I saw you the second time, at my door, on Valentine’s day, bearing gifts. You had that look in your eyes, that puppy eyed look that said, take me in, care for me, protect me and give me a home. The only problem was that the person standing toe to toe with me at my door looked nothing like a puppy. Taller by a foot and a half, shoulders so broad my front door seemed like a squeeze, voice so gruff and deep like the thunder in the distance after the rain.
You’d said it was a half-hearted thing, that you’d done it just because I’d casually let slip that I hadn’t had a Val treat since my last anonymous crush in high school. I didn’t think you would be this forward with a girl you’d only met on TV before our marketing roundtable negotiations.
You surprised me, but didn’t surprise me. I had seen your type before. Not serious, half compassionate but unwilling to do the needful. You men come in all shapes and sizes but you act the same like you were cut from the same cloth. I can see you, not the gentle giant you, the scared school boy you, the you that stands shaking in the assembly ground when called up for punishment for a night-time curfew breach that went wrong.
I know that you will not stay, that you are drawn to the concept of being with a celebrity like moths are drawn to the heat of the bulb and not the burning filament itself. But you see, I’m not just the light and heat you want, I’m also the burning filament. I do not keep my thoughts or intentions or irritations hidden so far beneath the surface as to be comfortable to the men moths that swarm.
I am not bound by the norms of society. I’m not obliged to be polite or subservient to anyone just because testosterone flows in their veins more than mine. I will not believe you when you say you think the same way, simply because you are accepted by society. Their affection is your drug, you’re used to it already, you thrive on it. You claim you can do without it and all the screaming thoughts in my head echo back and forth, Water! Well! Miss! Run dry!
The puppy look is back but I don’t care. Or rather I care too much to pay it any mind. I do not want you to waste my time. I don’t want to waste yours either. Now, you’ve set aside your height advantage and reversed the picture. Now there you kneel, a foot and a half shorter than I am, little open box in hand, voice as unstoppable as the wind in the wilting willows.
The illusion is more powerful this time, seeing you like this, remembering all the times I’ve held you vulnerable in my arms, felt you in me and taken in your essence. But I’m not even sorry. My heart is being broken again here, not yours. I’ve stumbled on yet the same query from yet another examiner. My answer remains the same.
Honestly, I am not the marrying type.
Happy Valentine’s day people 🙂