Break My Heart Again

Break My Heart Again

We both know the drill.

You text me.

You ask to see me.

I say yes.

The answer is always yes for you. It’s always the same place, some hotel, and the same time, lunch hour. You always want the same thing. So just like the venue and the time, the price never changes. We just settle on the day of the week.

I always get ready for our meeting because you are impeccable and I try to be too. For you. Your beard is always well-trimmed. Your head always bald. Suit always pressed and well-fitting. Shoes very shiny and black. Body, always masculine, always strong, always smelling like everything I want out of this life.

So I try to do my part too. To look good for you. So I shave places and I clean my hair and I paint my nails, and wear a cute little dress over cute little underwear. Then I wear the highest heels in the boldest color, today’s is burgundy, and step out to our rendezvous. A nice hotel that we’ve both come to love.

I’m always looking forward to seeing you. You’re always late. Always coming in when I’m already in the room. I suspect there is someone who works in the hotel who informs you when I arrive. The room is always the same, overlooking the parking lot. Now that I’m standing by the window, I see your car getting parked, and I see you exiting the car and locking it absentmindedly. You have your phone in your hand, and your eyes are glued to it as you subconsciously, out of habit, take the steps leading to the hotel entrance.

So I do what I always do at this point.

I take off my cute little dress.

I hang it in the empty closet and caress it to straighten the creases. Then I sit on the edge of the bed in my cute little underwear. Matching black panties and bra. I know black is your favorite color. I told myself I shouldn’t do such little things for people like you, but I also told myself that I should do such little things for you. Just you.

Our room always has a bottle of wine on ice with two glasses when I come in. This is one little thing you take care of. One little thing you do for me, I want to believe. My guess is that you’re now coming up the stairs to the first floor. You will be walking along the corridor in a minute or two and approaching room 15 in a few seconds. Perfect time for me to pour our drinks.

You open the door, and there I sit on the bed. Both my hands are stretched out behind me. My right leg is crossed over my left one. My burgundy heels are still on my feet. You smile at me. I want to believe the smile is not just out of politeness. That you’re happy to see me.

So you and your glorious scent walk into the room and lock the door behind you. You place your phone on top of the bed, kiss my cheek, and then you start taking off your coat, your shirt, and your pants. You open the closet, you see my dress hanging by its lonesome self in there, and you continue to hang your items, one after another, right next to it. You carefully caress the creases out of your clothes just as I did mine.

You then pick up your phone again and do that thing you always do. My phone pings in retaliation. I stand up and pick your drink from the table and bring it to you. “No,” you say. “I have to go back to work after this.”

Of course.

So I place the drink back on the table. “But you can drink. Don’t let me stop you,” you say, as you put your phone on the table and proceed to take off your final item of clothing. If I’d forgotten why we’re both here, your boxer dropping on the floor is a jolting reminder.

“Maybe later,” I say

I take off my final two pieces of black. I really shouldn’t do little things for people like you, or for you for that matter. I take off my heels too. Never mind that I prefer to be undressed. I prefer my bra to be snapped open by a strong hand while another hand roams from one boob to the other, to my wholesome bum. I prefer my panties to be pulled down by eager hands and an equally eager mouth to kiss my thighs while at it.

Never mind what I prefer.

My feet climb on top of the bed. And so do you.

I’m dying to kiss you, but I can’t. We don’t do that. I look at you and I’m tempted to tell you why I wear your favorite color. Why I wish you’d share a drink with me. You don’t look at me. Your focus is on one part of my body. You grant. You close your eyes. You sweat some. You barely say a word. You don’t say my name. Any name. Honey. Sweetheart. Sexy. Beautiful. I caress your back and your bald head. But I doubt that you notice that I’m giving you more than your money’s worth. I’m giving you my love, idiot. My tears. My heartbreak.

Your breathing gets faster and louder. I’m wondering what would happen if I kissed you. What would happen if you looked at me now that you’re inside me. Mere courtesy. What would happen if you twiddled my boobs a little?

Because even though I sleep with men for a living, you’re the one man I want to be owned by. The only man I wouldn’t take money from in exchange for sex. But each time I get an Mpesa message from you, it kills me. You remind me that having a drink with me is beneath you.

You’re sated.

You go to the bathroom.

I check my Mpesa message. I’m three thousand shillings richer. Yay, me! You come out of the bathroom a minute later with one piece of clothing back on your body. Now you go to the closet and one by one, your clothes leave the hanger and land on your body again. My dress is left up there. Hanging by its lonesome self once again.

Phone in hand, you look at me briefly and then you open the door and leave. I see my heart drop to the floor and crush.

I’ll get up to pee. Then I’ll get back to bed and lie there for a while. I’ll hang onto your scent and this bottle of wine. I’ll hang onto hope that one day you’ll keep your money and have a drink with me instead.

I know you’ll text me again soon.

You’ll get another chance to break my heart again.



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