The Speaking Presence
I loathe the mushy, wet earth the rain leaves in its wake as a reminder that it was here.
I loathe the cold nights that makes my teeth clatter and my body, shiver, even under a duvet.
In a BRT from TBS to Stadium Bus Stop, I lean my head to recline on the window. Listening to Jocelyn Pook’s album, Flood, with my ear piece, I shut shut the world.
Right now, Goya’s Nightmare is the song on play. There is something about it. The ominous rhythm of the percussion coupled with the lulling sound of violins, violas, and a cello combine to produce a sad, sinister yet otherworldly symphony. A female voice calls out in a strange language and it sounds like the call to an… initiation of some sorts. After some lines, a nasalised tenor voice accompanies hers. He sounds Middle- Eastern- maybe Hebrew. Despite not understanding the language, I can sing the lyrics because I have heard this song a thousand times. I close my eyes and let my imagination run amok.
I see myself in a groove under the full moon. In this groove, a big fire has been made with sticks and the flame rise higher and higher in a bid to kiss the sky. On bended knees, I am before this great fire and a High Priestess, dressed in red and white with her hair let loose, daintily walks towards me with an earthenware plate in her hand. Slowly, she dips her index into the content of the plate and marks my forehead. As she does this, her male counterpart, with his face marked with mud and something red- might be blood, brings forth a knife and points it at me. Gently, he raises my palm and soon, I feel the steel coldness of the knife slice through it causing pain to skitter on my nerves. The pain implodes within me. Crimson drops of my blood drip into a gourd. At that there’s a cheer from the others seating in the groove. Soon, silence, like a mist, descends upon us I imagine the goddess Diana here to join in our…
The passenger sitting close to me nudges me out of my reverie. Lazily, my eyelids flutter open to appraise her. In return, she mouths ‘sorry’ and waves her hand at me to gesture her apology.
Albeit it being contrived, I smile at her and shrug. Anyway, I have to keep my eyes open, as I’d approach my bus stop anytime soon.
Once more, I lean my head against the window, look at the road, and see the raindrops bounce off the car roofs. That eerie feeling comes again. It’s the same feeling I’d been having for the past two days. I know what it portends. What I don’t know is: who it is. The entity might employ the lightning. I should expect a manifestation anytime soon.
Bizarre as it seems, I see dead people.
It’s funny when people deny the existence of ghosts. Ikenna and Chris, my close male friends, who happen to be atheists, including Mezie, my husband, have debunked the fact that there are no ghosts. I don’t try convincing them otherwise. Let them believe what they want. You know, maybe the reason they haven’t experienced one could be that they don’t believe it. I’ll never tell them about this my… “gift”- for the lack of a better word. In the real sense, it is more like a curse.
Some restless spirits, who have been bound to the earth, come to tell me things I don’t want to know. Recently, two months ago to be precise, it was an angry ghost that claimed someone had murdered her. I tried to make her understand that it could have been the diabetes. She would have none of it. Fate has dealt me such beautiful cards. Being a shrink to the living is not enough. I have to listen to dead people. The ghost, Akaugo had begged me to contact her last child, Ijeoma, who was serving in Lagos. She made me promise that before she crossed over.
Although I found Ijeoma on Facebook, I didn’t make any attempt at contacting her. Eventually, I will. There’s something binding about the promises we make to the dead.
Getting home, I turn the keys at the lock. Although Mezie is home, we agree to hold our keys. Just in case.
“Lover,” I call out to Mezie, who has been home all day. He’s in the kitchen making us dinner. “I’m home.”
With the plates and pans clanging and the tap running, I don’t expect him to hear me.
Stealthy, I tiptoe to the kitchen and creep up on him. As he is lost in his own world, he doesn’t know I’m home. I clap and shriek behind him.
“Fuck!” he splashes soapy water on me as he turns around to look at me. I laugh at his visibly startled and shaken countenance. “Why are you like this?” I see his chest heave and gently he leans against the sink.
“Weakling,” I lean in and brush my lips against his. “You smell meaty.” I smirk as I sniff him.
“That’s because I’m cooking meat, duh,” he rolls his eyes in feigned exasperation and gently pushes me away. Turning around to the sink, he continues washing the dirty dishes.
“How was work today?” I wrap my arms around his waist and press my nose into his neck to breathe him in. His manly scent, which is a mixture of his cologne and sweat, wafts up my olfactory nerves, to my brain, which evokes a certain sense of relief that makes me sigh delightfully like a baby that just had her fill of breast milk.
“Fine,” he shrugs. “I’m still working on that site for those oil people.”
“You’ll be fine, sweetie,” I murmur close to his ear. “I missed you.”
“This one you love me today…” he trails off.
“Don’t spoil market. I missed you. Be nice,” as I gnaw at his neck, he gets ticklish and leans away from me.
“Any new client?” still with my arms around him, we walk to the cooker as if we’re doing a tango. I don’t say anything. Although I have known him for four years, I have never mentioned that I can see ghosts.
Perfunctorily, I reply, “no new client.” I feel as if I lied to him. But, do ghosts count as my clients?
“Baby, come and taste,” he pries my hand away from him and faces me. Softly, he blows air on the spoon.
“Kuku spit on it,” I eye him.
“This won’t be the first time you’ll be taking fluids from me,” his laughter rumbles in his chest.
“Harlot,” I smack his stomach and he feigns pain.
“Oya, open,” holding my chin in his palm, I get lewd ideas in my head. He’s seen my pupils dilate and he asks with a frown, “What is wrong with this one? It’s ordinary food you are tasting… ” he feeds me the spoon’s content.
I close my eyes and at once, the spicy taste, coupled with the burning sensation, assaults my senses. Instinctively, I moan. This is a sinful delight! Now, I know how Oscar Wilde felt the first time he tasted ice cream. Mezie loves beef stew and he cooks it so good that it should be illegal. In my case, sinful. Merde!
In the moments my eyes are shut, I see a strange man’s face. I get goose bumps as I feel the room temperature drop. This isn’t from the cold outside.
“I love it,” I open my eyes to stare at him. “Thanks,” I manage to retain a smile on my face. I can’t let Mezie suspect anything. “Let me shower. I’ll eat little.”
As I make to walk away, he grips my waist and pulls me closer to him. I look into his brown eyes radiating warmth. My mind tells me he wants to say something. After staring into my soul for a while, I see his Adam apple bob in his throat, “I missed you, too.” Then, he says. “Be dressed in twenty minutes.”
I should tease him, “You’re sounding like one better person. You should have left a handwritten note, saying, ‘knight expects you to dinner in fifty minutes’’’. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that. Instead, I say, “Okay,” as I walk backwards out of the kitchen.
In the bathroom, I run the tap and watch the bucket fill up with cold water. Once more, I get that feeling that makes my skin crawl. The ghost is actually with me in the bathroom.
When I was younger, the idea of a ghost watching me bath was revolting. Everything about it was invasive. Good for me, Time has taught me not to fret whenever any of them approach me at inopportune moments. After all, they were once mortal. Lest I forget, some ghosts have a sense of humour. It could be goofy or plain sarcastic. Once, I joked with one, Aisha, about stealing my body.
“Why would I take your body?” she asked.
“That way you’d get to meet up with your girlfriend and you two would reconnect,” I snickered at my own sick joke.
“No, you’re not her type,” she wagged her finger before me. “Your body is not her type.”
“What is her type?”
“Now that I’ve lost my mortal shell, I think this type thing is stupid. Some people get carried away looking for their physical types while neglecting their real types- soul type. I mean what matters is the soul. You know the soul has no gender?”
Stupidly, I asked, “What gender is your soul?”
“What is the colour of air? What is the shape of water?”
When I realised my question was asinine, we both laughed.
Tenderly, I sponge my body while being aware that a ghost is staring at me. I can feel it. I should hurry up and get out of the bathroom lest I catch a cold. Yet, here I am washing my skin languidly. I think of a mermaid toileting, comb in hand, as she smoothens out the locks of her hair, on a rock in the middle of the ocean.
I’m half an inch close to getting exasperated at this entity. If it were in the human realm, Lord knows I would have gotten a restraining order against it. This game is tiring and for the first time, I make the first move.
You have been following me for almost three days. What do you want? Do you want me to talk to someone for you?
Are you shy? You can always talk to me when you are ready.
Soon, I’m done in the bathroom and step into the bedroom.
On getting there, I see the exact T-shirt I plan on wearing. Boy am I petrified! I stare at the cloth with my hands limp at my side.
In slow motion, the cloth gets crumpled as it moves on the bed. Against my volition, I take a step back. Slowly, I see it levitate from the bed until it is suspended mid-air. There is my magenta sleeping shirt hovering in the air like it were connected to a cord dangling from the ceiling. In a bid to hide my trepidation, I swallow and inhale slowly. For the second time in my life, I am dealing with a poltergeist. That’s not enough time to get used to this kind of ghost.
The poltergeist can sense my fear.
Quickly, it lets go of my cloth and they fall in a heap on the bed.
I didn’t mean to scare you, it assures me. It is a masculine presence. Somehow, I feel relaxed. He is not going to hurt me I’m sure.
Once more, my cloth levitates from the bed and mid-air they come to where I stand in the centre of the room. If I stay a minute more without wearing clothes, I will develop a cold.
Take. I knew you were thinking of it. I brought it for you.
Honestly, I’m amazed and impressed. This ghost was strong enough to pull that stunt. I imagine he has been dead for a long time.
Oh, thanks, I send my thoughts to him. Hurriedly, I snatch the shirt.
You’re welcome, there’s a hint of humour. Almost like mischief. Should I wear it for you?
No, I laugh. How come you can do this?
Practice makes perfect, he said.
Introduce yourself, please.
I’m Damola. And I used to be a fan of your blog while I was…
He seems pained. That I can deduce from his inability to say he is dead. Most ghosts don’t like thinking that they are dead. I don’t urge him to tell me more.
My husband would freak out if he knew I can communicate with you.
He’s the jealous type? He asks wistfully.
No, no… He doesn’t know I can talk with ghosts.
You should hide it from him. But, like you wrote on that your blog post, I can never forget it… You wrote: ‘Truth is like a woman under arrest in your basement. You keep her; hide her down there thereby making her your prisoner until she has had it to fever pitch. She is savage and dangerous! That’s why she doesn’t leave the basement in stealth. No. She comes out with a bang! Tearing down the door and shaking your house. She would walk in on you and stare you in the face with a weapon she made with odds and ends in your basement. Regardless of what you are doing, she’ll hit you hard and hurt you. Unfortunately, the scars she leaves behind will haunt you depending on the intensity of her anger. The longer you hide her in your basement, the angrier she gets. The angrier she gets, the ferocity of her blows.’ You should take your own advice and tell him about it. It wouldn’t be nice if he finds out on his own. But then…
He didn’t have to recite that post. In lieu, he could have said, ‘physician, cure thyself.’ I feel like a hypocrite listening to Damola. Look at me here not taking my own advice.
I’ll tell him.
You shouldn’t, I maintain. I only presented two options to you. If my wife didn’t tell me what I shouldn’t know, I’d still be alive. But, I could have discovered the truth on my own later.
Yeah, you want to tell me your story? I ask. That’s why you are here. But, we have to do this later.
Sure, sure, he leaves me on that note.
There are different ways ghost materialise. They use up heat in an enclosure. Sometimes, it could be ionised molecules or electronic devices. I assume the lightning made my “new client” stronger.
After dinner, I do the dishes while Mezie works in the small space we eked out as our study space in the sitting room. He’s working on a website for an oil company based in Libya and the deadline is approaching. I understand that he needs space.
Standing at the door and letting my gaze wander the room, I remember a conversation I had with him playing with his toes as we sat on the floor of the sitting room, ‘‘If you are broke, I will not support you.” In response, he laughed at me.
I continued, ‘‘It will be like film trick when you wake up single. Imagine I wasn’t working…’’
‘‘Thank you o,’’ he stuck out his tongue. ‘New Independent Woman. Your mates are housewives… you are here acting independent.’
Forcefully, I yanked his big toe and he winced, ‘‘I was talking about me not me in relation to other women. Different women want different things. If a woman wants to be a trophy wife, housewife, career woman, or whatever, we have no business making her feel bad about her choices. What matters most is choice.’’
He simply stared at me with a wide toothy grin plastered on his face. Mimicking Kanmi, he teased, ‘‘They have given you mic, Feminist of the Republic. F- girl. Feminista, womanista. Alice Walker in the building. Activist of Life. Oby Ezekwesili is my role model. The dam has burst. They have goaded you to talk.’’
I couldn’t hold back the laughter, ‘Darling, stop.’ He joined me in laughing.
A smile dances on my lips as I’m brought back to the present. I love this man! Sometimes, I feel I don’t deserve him. When we were younger, before we started dating, I told him I couldn’t be committed to him even if we started something. I used to be a commitment phobe. Somehow, he’d stuck around through my flings with different people, mostly women. Maybe time changed me. Maybe I was sated. I can’t say. That I haven’t cheated on him, is a mystery.
I shake my head as if it would chase the bad thoughts away.
Walking up to him, I embrace him and plant a kiss on his forehead. ‘I’m off to bed,’ I whisper.
‘Okay,’ he caresses my face. ‘I’ll meet you up later. Goodnight.’
‘Don’t dream rubbish o,’ he calls after me. I shake my head in return. If only he knew.
It’s few minutes before 3AM. Sitting up in bed, I see Mezie sprawled on his side of the bed. Then, I feel Damola’s presence.
I’ve been waiting for you. I didn’t want to ruin your sleep.
Thanks, I smile.
Can we talk now?
But not here, he asserts.
I’m taken aback. What does he have in mind? Does he want us to go somewhere in the wee hours of the morning?
Are you scared? I meant we should talk in your sitting room.
Furtively, I leave my husband. Good thing that he sleeps like a log. He’s probably in Stage Three or Four Sleep. Something about sneaking out of our bedroom makes it feel like I’m cheating on Mezie. I won’t lie. Recently, I have been flirting with the idea of cheating. I love him but I feel like I’m in a rut. If the perfect motivation to cheat comes, heaven knows I might cheat.
With a mug of warm milk in my hand, I sit on the loveseat with my legs folded under me. Damola is here with me.
Gradually, the mug grows cold. I know what’s coming next and I drink up the content of the mug at once in anticipation.
With each minute, I am getting drained of energy. It feels like I’ve worked out at the gym for two hours. I want to tell him to stop but, I can’t. I don’t want to. Something about him feeding off my energy is slightly erotic. It feels like I’m being drained of all my fluids and this in turn causes a lightheadedness that produces a certain euphoria.
Finally, he manifests before me and I see him seating with me on the loveseat.
In the dingy lighting of the sitting room, I see he is wearing a dashiki with a pair of blue jean trousers. I take in his clean-shaven head- no face hair, no head hair. I estimate he’s not taller than 5’ 5”. He looks… tiny. At least to me.
“Hi, it’s me, Damola,” he smiles at me.
“I’m Luisa,” regardless of him knowing my name, I feel it is the courteous thing to do.
“I know,” he adjusts in the seat. “I have an hour with you. I know your man will wake up by five. We don’t want him to see me.”
Sagely, I nod my head at him, “True, true.” Immediately, I add, “You realised you drained me?’
“I’m sorry. But heat and people are the only way I know how to do this.”
“That trick in the bedroom? How about that? I thought it was the lightning.”
“I don’t need to materialise before moving objects. I can put my mind and concentrate and things can move. A friend taught me that.”
I give him a weak smile. In a bid to know how long he’s been dead, I want to comment that he’s quickly made friends with other ghosts. I think otherwise. Before we are done talking, I would get to know. I ask, “What do you want to tell me?”
“First things first, I must commend what you do. I am a big fan of your blog. I love that you write about most things that Nigerians are not willing to talk about. As for knowing that you can talk with ghosts, I discovered that. See, I wanted to see you one on one; the woman that owns that blog. You remember there was a day you wrote about afterlives?”
“I remembered and I decided to acquire a connection.”
“Okay, Damola. How long have you been this way?” I deliberately avoid the word “dead”.
Ruefully looking away from me, he sighs, “About two months. I don’t know.” He looks at me once more, “It’s like time is different yet the same and…” he is bemused.
‘Why?’ I contain my shock.
‘That is what I’m going to tell you. And you’ll take a message to my wife. I need you to talk to my wife. I know you can.’
‘Ha, she would think I am nuts.’
‘I’ll be there when you talk to her. How about that?’
‘She’ll be scared.’
‘That’s the only way,’ he says pleadingly.
I play with the concept in my head. Eventually, I acquiesce, ‘Okay, then.’
He is relieved, ‘Thanks, Luisa.’
‘So you want to tell me?’
A week later, on Saturday, I am in a beautiful apartment somewhere in Festac. I take in the ambience of the sitting room- the brown rug in the middle of the room that reminds me of the earth, the azure curtains hanging on rails that almost touch the ceiling, thereby giving the room an air of sophistication, the white sofas, the azure-coloured wall that is a perfect match to the curtain, and looking up, I take in the ceiling with sophisticated patterns on it. Everything about this place yells “mild opulence”.
My eyes settle on the woman sitting on the single arm seat. From the look of it, I estimate her to be in her early thirties, slightly older than I am. Meeting sad people is not a novelty to me. But, her shade of sorrow is way too grey. Her hair is packed in a bun. This pulls back her face and accentuates it roundness which I find childlike and adorable. I think of a baby and somehow, one of the creep infant in the movie, Passion of the Christ, comes to my mind. Her black tank top clings to her skin and I can see the folds of her midriff.
After hearing Damola’s bloodcurdling story, he pleaded that I call his wife, Rita. Sincerely, I was reluctant. I didn’t need her to think I was a charlatan or a thief.
I called her and she freaked out when I told her Damola sent me to her. I felt like Oda Mae Brown, Whoopi’s character in the movie, Ghost.
“I don’t believe those kinds of things,” she said. Albeit I had proven that I could communicate with her husband, she was still sceptical.
Livid was I when she resorted to calling me derogatory names.
“You know what? It’s not my business. He only wants to explain why you are childless,” I blurted out.
“Idoit!” she screamed into the phone. “You dare to joke about it?”
“Did you tell him about those four guys that raped you?” I said at last with the hope that she would pipe down. I didn’t want to mention it but she goaded me to.
“How did you know that?” Rita whispered. I could imagine her face aghast. “I never told anyone. Not even him.” Pause. I figured that she was thinking that I probably sent the men to her.
“Your husband just said I should tell you, ‘quando, quando.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
“Yes,” she sighed. Few moments of silence, “It’s part of the lyrics of a song that he loves and well, …” she reluctantly added, “‘Quando’ was our safe word.”
Interesting to know that Damola had tried BDSM. Anyway, it was expected with how sadistic he was. One thing I’ve noticed is that sometimes, people with a mean streak have a predilection for kinky sex.
Convinced that I had gotten her attention, I went on to add, “He says I should tell you, ‘4367’. That is your phone’s password.”
At that she hung up.
Later in the evening, she called to apologize for being brash to me earlier. She went on to add that she believed me. Only Damola knew her phone’s password, she said. Tentatively, she asked if we could meet up by weekend at her place and I acquiesced. Once more, she apologized to me before hanging up.
Watching her now, I feel guilty. It’s like I opened up a wound. After what I will tell her, she might hate her late husband’s memory. I tried talking Damola out of it but he would have none of it. He claimed that he wanted to rest in peace.
I clear my throat to break the silence that is suspended mid-air like a gourd in the centre of the room.
“Mrs. Rita, I’m sorry about your loss,” I say. “I didn’t want him to contact you but he said he wanted to rest in peace. That is why I am here.”
She nods her head in acceptance.
“His ghost is here right.”
Fright takes hold of her and she looks at me with her face shell-shocked, “Are you saying I can see him?” she gasps as she jumps back in her seat in stupefaction.
“If you want to. Just a bit. It’s possible.”
Tell her not to be scared.
“He says you shouldn’t be scared.
In a flash, Damola materializes on another seat.
As expected, she jumps on her seat and shrieks in horror as her eyes widen in horror to take in the apparition before her.
He gestures to her to quiet down with a boyish smile on his face. Something in me wants to smack that smirk off his face.
In response, her eyes widen as she cups her palm over her mouth and nods her head violently like a little child whose mother has hushed over and over, while looming menacingly with a whip in her hand.
It won’t be long before he vanishes. When he does, he would still send thoughts that only me can “hear”.
“I’m sorry,” he says contritely to her. Sorry is all he can say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats incessantly as if it is a prayer.
Rita shakes her head as she weeps uncontrollably. The tears cascade down her face like a waterfall. I don’t feel bad that she’s crying. By the time I’m done telling her everything, this sadness will segue into anger and vitriol. I would have to sign her up as a client. But, it would be for free. No woman deserves what her husband did to her.
After about a minute, he disappears. In the wake of his disappearance, she bawls louder. Here I was thinking that she had cried it all out.
With uncertainty in my steps, I walk over to her. Taking her hand, I pull her to the floor so we can sit. There she is vulnerable like a helpless toddler.
Seating with me on the floor, I place her head in the crook of my shoulder and let her cry. I feel her shudder and spasm and shiver. Albeit not having the will to relay her husband’s message to her, I go ahead with the onerous task.
I tell her of how he asked four men to rape her when he discovered that she cheated on him with his cousin. In the aftermath of that incident, she had contracted an infection that adversely affected her womb. As fate would have it, she had commenced treatment before the infection did more damage. Eventually, the doctor informed her that conceiving was going to be “an act of God”. The knowledge that he caused his wife’s misery produced a guilt that he couldn’t get over. Unable to live with the weight of his guilt weighing on his heart, he played the big ace.
As expected, she is livid. Only that it’s ephemeral. Without saying much, she excuses herself and after a while, she returns with a bottle of chilled vodka and two glasses.
With a cryptic smile dancing on her lips, she pours into the glasses. She hands one to me and raises the other to her lips.
“A toast,” she raises her hand to stop me from drinking the content. “Here is to the end of stupid assholes disguising as men. Fuck all of them!”
I couldn’t drink to that. She was unlucky having such a husband. My Mezie is not an asshole, I’m tempted to say. But, taking into cognizance that she’s sad and pretending to be happy, I simply raise the glass to my lips and send its content down with a gulp.
Two hours later, a half empty bottle of vodka between us, she slurs at me, “He’s a bastard.”
At that, we titter like two kids.
We are inebriated.
“Will you spend the night?” she asks amidst chuckles.
“I have to be home,” I smile at her.
“I love that you are here, Luisa,” she stares at me intently.
“I have to go home to my husband,” my tone is firm.
“Call him and tell him that you are with a friend. He’ll understand,” she hiccups. She drains her glass and blinks at me, “Are you scared that I’ll make moves on you?”
“No,” I raise my brow at her.
Tapping her index finger on my nose, she leers at me, “You are scared, jare.”
Tossing the idea in my head, driving home in this state would be a bad idea. Even if I took public transport, going home in that state would be a harebrained idea.
Logic wins and I call my husband to inform him about my decision to spend the night at Rita’s. As expected, he is quite understanding. He even speaks with Rita and she promises that I’m in good hands. I know that he knows we are sloshed.
I wake up with a start. There’s no point checking the time; I know it is 2:30 AM thereabouts because, every day, I wake up that time.
Looking to my right, I see Rita curled into a ball as she reposes peacefully. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn. My gaze veer to the table and there is the bottle of vodka; almost empty. My head hurts and I feel slightly dizzy. The last time I drank this much was… I can’t remember. It’s not as though Mezie being teetotal influenced me.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I pick my phone and see ten missed calls and five texts from Mezie. Fear washes over me. The last thing I would want for him to think is that I’m not safe. Didn’t I call him the previous evening to say I was spending the night at a friend’s place?
The first one reads: I miss you. Now I know how it feels like sleeping alone. Be safe for me.
The second goes: Call me when you wake up. By the way, you two were sounding drunk. Don’t act silly.
The third: At least, next time, let me watch. You’re keeping me away from all the fun. I rolled my eyes as I read the other texts.
I feel Damola’s presence.
Thank you, Luisa. With the power-saver bulb that illuminates the sitting room, I’m sure he can see my face. I smile.
Now, I think I can go, he sounds relieved. I feel this lightness in my soul. I am grateful to you. Thanks a lot for taking the pains to do this for me.
Don’t mention, I reply.
I see that light because I am ready to go. I saw it before. But, I was running away from it. Now that they know I’m ready, they are here.
Should I wake her? I ask.
No, no, she probably doesn’t care. But, please, help her get over the anger.
I will be here for her.
Thanks, once more. Goodbye, Luisa.
Travel safe, I smile.
I still keep in touch in Rita. Once a week, we spend time together. As time goes by, she’ll get over her husband’s betrayal. In a bid to avoid making her repress her emotions, I ensure that we talk about Damola.
Mezie teases me about my new friend every day for the past three weeks. I don’t know why he thinks I’m doing anything behind his back. Once, he told me, “If you cheat on me with a guy, it would pain me. What can he do that I can’t do? But, if it’s a girl, I might understand that you want something different.”
This is different from what most men think. They’d get angrier if their partners/spouses cheated on them with another woman.
With him obsessing about me cheating on him, I might as well go ahead. If I can serve the time, I should commit the crime.
I know I would.
With whom, time will tell.
But somehow, I know who it would be.