A half-hearted apology, reassurance, a bar of chocolate and a bout of steamy make up sex.


Nothing picks a guy’s interest faster than boobs or a nice car. I think the latter more because you can confess just how much you want to ride it and not look weird at all. You could be walking down the street with your better-whatever and see some ceramic white 7 series with matte black rims cruise by and you can stare. You can let out a long, slow chauvinistic whistle and shake your head in disbelief. You can cut conversation short and let the machine drag your gaze along until it turns the corner. You can look at your better-whatever and say ‘Daaaaamn!’ and it wouldn’t be weird.

If that was a woman, well, there are faster and less painful ways to die. You will endure weeks of “I’m ok” texts and sudden outbursts of “Go talk to your whores Brian.” Then she will start being nice, not just nice but extra nice. She will cook meals like she’s been watching Martha Stewart and shower you with gifts. This is weird because the last time she gave you a gift, it was her company – she decided she’s coming on guy’s night out and pouted until you reluctantly said yes. That night she had fun but you didn’t. The guys all gave you that “who the fuck brings their girlfriend out?” Joe hates you the most because your girl is best friends with his – no frolicking tonight. You both sat on the couches and brooded over beers until it was time to go home (which was earlier than usual) and you had to deal with the “But you never come home this early” tantrums.  So of course you’ll eye the eggs benedict suspiciously.

She will rub your arms playfully but your mind will be unsettled, all you can think about is what is going on in that head of hers. You won’t eat the egg – of course – when she turns away you will stash it in a clear bag and take it to the government pharmacy for poison testing. She will call you all the sweet names and probably kiss you on the lips and it would hit you that the most blameless man on earth was also betrayed by a kiss. This can’t be life, paranoia is dangerous, and so you hit her up that evening with the “We need to talk” text. This should set things straight you think. That night you dab on the cologne she bought and head over to the restaurant you chose. You chose this specific restaurant because your boy works there and you know the chef. Matter of fact you owe him money so he doesn’t benefit from your death he needs you alive – goodbye poisoned food.

She shows up on time, unlike her, unlike any woman you’ve ever dated actually. You order what you’re having and insist that your beer is opened in your presence. She orders a light meal, a chicken salad and a glass of dry white. You hear dry white goes well with the vinaigrette in the salad. After the plates have been cleared you sit back with your beer in hand and watch her for a while. She blushes and asks you to stop. You tell her she looks pretty and she coyly laughs. Shit, you remember you were not supposed to flirt, now the whole conversation has to take a different direction. No one breaks up with a girl after dishing out a compliment. That’s like applying surgical spirit before stabbing someone to death – it’s not like they’ll get any infections dead. You shelve that idea faster than Nick Mutuma’s rapping career.

You bore her with stories of yonder and how you met. You tell her how important she has become in your life and how no one can take her place. You do everything you can to get out that murderous underlying little glint in her eyes. She places her chin in her folded palms and smiles. You don’t want to smile back because it could be a trap. She has a sly smile much like Tom when he was sure he had Jerry trapped. But not smiling would make you look suspicious so you sheepishly grin. She leans in, her eyes closed and her lips are pouted. She wants a kiss, wait, why does she want a kiss? It’s going too well but you can’t leave her hanging so you also lean in and close your eyes. But, your lips don’t meet instead behind gritted teeth you hear “Then why did you look at her butt you asshole” and then you feel the cold splash of a liquid on your face. You open your eyes to see her walking away strutting her stuff out of the restaurant. You are kind of relieved, all that anger pent up is dangerous. What’s left now is the long ride home with a half-hearted apology, reassurance, a bar of chocolate and a bout of steamy make up sex.


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