All I am saying at this stage is… there was a side-splitting play, lots of wine, a splendid sunset, floating away on a pond, great lighting, lots of small talk, a bit of walking, great art gallery with beautiful pieces to boot and right where I couldn't pronounce ‘silhouette’ was a straight out of the movie shut-up-and-kiss-me moment… whether it happened or not, is however irrelevant.
Now let’s jump to the after effects; I woke up the following morning to soundless music, the coffee mugs dancing on the shelves, pancakes swaying their hips on the pan and “um… um is my coffee SPEAKING to me?” Funny thing is, there was nothing telling in the silky morning air, but love was definitely laced on the sun rays piercing through the leaves of the enormous fig tree outside my kitchen window. As the warmth hit and spread throughout my face, I couldn’t ignore the images in the azure sky partially in hiding, images of a seraph thrilled by the sound of the Nyatiti playing “My moving home” in a dialect I couldn’t comprehend. The hilarity brought about by the costume-clad chaps under the bright lights of the stage tickled the Seraph much to my amusement and I never had such a lovely time watching a stranger laugh so hard, never.
This being is, easily the most fine-looking thing I have cast my eyes on in a long time, their laugh so gentle, stature so elegant, impeccable eloquence, exudes positive energy from every pore on their skin… incredibly erudite and did I mention that they look not a day older than 27 years but is as wise as a sage and as composed as a harp haha! (he is so beyond fine that I not only need the Englishmen to sit and create me an adjective for this person but also for Shakespeare to resurrect chap-chap for we have work to do!).
Unable to withstand the intensity and the blinding glow of the moment I turn away and smile with my heart albeit not furtive enough to cheat the woman in the kitchen busy brewing the coffee. Both the woman and the kettle are wearing a knowing smile, I can see their faces, the mischief, their asking lips twisted into a question that I am not ready to answer, no I will not dare say a word. For I have not the response. At this point, I take a swig of the dark fluid sitting motionless in my cup and resist the swallow if only to keep the secrets of the magic of the previous night from spilling.
Walking out hurriedly, index finger wagging behind me the woman in the kitchen is caught in a stutter “…I was just going to ask if you want some cream with that,” she lies out loud supporting her weight with the door frame. I can tell she is genuinely happy for me; she can’t thank heavens enough that I 'finally' healed the wounds of a disappointing and daunting past. She is holding back the excitement lest I slip back into the morbid habits of video games, slothfulness and suicidal imbibing. She blows me a warm kiss, full of a mother's affection , still I'm not telling.
The couch holds out its warm loving arms to receive my bony frame, he has been with me through the dark days of nursing a broken strange-muscle and I can tell he is over the moon that I didn’t walk in with a slab of cheese, a box of Kleenex and a bag of cheerios. The way he sinks back as my buttocks find a comfortable spot sounds more like a sigh of relief than anything else, I pat him gently and whisper, “It’s over buddy. The days of grief I mean.” I could swear I heard a muffled chuckle.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have got to stop right this minute before I jinx this any further and also because I need to pencil in lunch for coming weekend.
That would be all :-).