Like an accepting addict, I sauntered back to her. Back to her love, the unconditional, smothering and monotonous adoration. I did not share the extremity of her affections, I only adored being adored.
Now before you join the ever growing cue to spit at me, realise that dating in this latest century is horrible. You can never be too sure whether what you are getting physically, intellectually or emotionally are real.
There is a certain reassurance when someone constantly worships the ground you walk on, at least that is how I felt about Kiki.
She wasn’t slender or plump, neither was she over delectably curved like one would assume most African ladies from her community were. However, what she lacked in curves she made up for in cuisine. Yes, I know I’m feeding a clichè ,but the way to ‘THIS’ man’s heart is indeed through his stomach.
I was quite sure I would land a couple of big contracts if I had to marry Kiki, based on her gourmet meals alone . She was the sensible and stable choice, ever reliable, ever supportive and most importantly, ever faithfully and patiently waiting for me.
At times I think I am the devil’s second cousin for keeping her so close, most especially with our particular history. Kiki and I made a drunken mistake that led to a tinier mistake in her tummy. It only lasted a couple of weeks, however. We lost it.
I have never forgotten those few weeks with her though. They were nice, but where was the passion, the intense need and want?
I doubt that I will be able to live without it unless I exhaust my need for it. But how? Passion is like air to me. If I did indeed get over it, maybe then would I consider committing to Kiki. Until then, she sits comfortably in wait on the sidelines, love oozing from her big brown eyes.