She was beautiful. No, she is gorgeous. I mean, she grows beautiful every day I get to know her. But, I am referring to one particular evening; the first evening I met her. She showed up in a silver dress that proudly exposed the African pride in her shoulders and neck. Her legs were not hidden from view either: long, lanky, and sturdy legs, which looked great in a pair of black heels. A woman in high heels, my type of woman. Everything she wore screamed money, even though she insisted that they were cheap and went ahead to price everything that she had worn. If that was cheap, then I needed to re-evaluate my knowledge of finance. She whispered to me that she did not have a bra; that it was her first time leaving her house without supporting her twins. Yes, she called them twins, this woman of ours. I smiled with shocked amusement, especially when I realized that she did not know the gravity of her revelation.
She looked gorgeous in that dress even though she seemed visibly uncomfortable. Dresses were at the bottom of her list of preferred outfits. In fact, she wore them when she needed to impress. She wanted to impress me. Nice. I was impressed. She kept covering her shoulders with a jacket which I playfully confiscated. She said that dresses demanded a lot of attention, one had to sit right.
“…sit like a girl.” She said. I wondered how else she wanted to sit. That dress brought casual looks and stares in her direction, yet she wanted to blend into crowds and go unnoticed like the drab wallpaper at the café we were sat. If only she knew that she was a piece of art to be displayed and admired at the Louvre.
I ordered coffee. She hates coffee. She did not like tea that she had not prepared herself. She said that most teas lacked personality. Ah! This woman. She talked into the evening, not holding back her stories, her humor, or her laugh. She laughed like a happy witch. She spoke about philosophy, psychology, and politics. She talked about love. It was beautiful to look at, to write about, but not to be in, she had said. I could listen to her talk all night and all day.
To be honest, it was not her words I was listening to but the movement of her lips. She has beautiful lips, soft, whole, and a dark shade of pink. Lips with personality, I thought. Lol! I stared at her lips when she spoke, and when she was silent. I got lost in their view and wondered about the day I would physically get lost in them. I did drop an occasional ‘mm-hmm,’ ‘uh,’ ‘tell me about it’ into the conversation. She did not hesitate to tell me about it. And I watched her lips even more.
She must have seen something or remembered something. One minute her eyes shone with epiphanies, and from her Hellen of Troy lips sprang forth bouts of information, the next minute she was silent, like someone who had done that which they would one day rue. I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t. I needed to know, but I couldn’t. I had not been listening.