The Whore On The Third Floor – Part 3

The Whore on the third floor, 6lack free

Philip.

I can smell him.

The brightness of the morning has filled up my bedroom too eagerly. Philip is in my bed. And on my skin. And between my thighs. And tangled in my sheets. And I can still taste him on my tongue. I don’t want to open my eyes because all these will disappear. I know that when I turn around, I’ll come face to face with him. His eyes will either be closed in deep sleep, or they will be open and will stare right back at me. There’s no telling what he’ll see there.

I know that he is or will be conflicted. Maybe he’ll ask himself a couple of questions. Like how did he get here? What is he supposed to do now? Make me a cup of coffee? Leave hurriedly and pretend that he’s late for work even though it’s a Saturday? Sit on the bed and tell me that we need to talk, Brenda? That what happened last night, Brenda, was a mistake? That my life is complicated, Brenda? Is he supposed to go ahead and tell me about that wife that he has – come on, of course, there’s a wife – or a girlfriend? A fiance perhaps? How is he supposed to say all these when I still have all of him inside me?

I’m not sure whether I want him to stay or leave. Either seems fine to me. But I can feel him behind me. Facing me. Breathing into my back tattoo. Almost spooning me.

I’m not ready to face him yet.

And I’m not ready to face what I’m feeling yet.

If only he could lend me his body one more time this morning–

I get up and head to the bathroom.

The whore in the mirror looks back at me and squints her eyes. I’m not sure of who she is anymore. I’m not sure of how she feels.

It’s only after I’ve washed Philip off my body that I’m ready to face him. Or so I think. Even then, I’m not sure what I’ll say to him. All the conversations that I’d planned in my head become irrelevant when I walk back to the bedroom.

Nobody is in my bed.

Or in my kitchen making pancakes or whatever whores get in the morning after steamy sex. Or in the living room scrolling through his phone or watching the morning news. Just like that, his scent had left my house. The problem has taken care of itself. I guess.

I stand in the living room, not sure whether to go back to bed, make those pancakes myself, or go and grab some coffee downstairs. Mato and Mwangi always have some fresh pastries in the morning.

Philip is out there.

I choose to go back to bed.

Hunger wakes me up. I watch some TV.

It’s getting dark outside. Hunger persists. I head downstairs to buy some food from Mato or Mwangi. No sign of Philip. Maybe he’s at work. Or maybe he’s home. I come up the stairs and my feet take me to the first floor. I’m standing outside Philip’s door.

My right hand forms a fist and knocks on the door.

A lady opens the door on the fourth knock. I’ve seen her before. Lovely lady. Beautiful lady. Just like her husband, I presume.

Hi.

Hi, Brenda. How are you today?

Is Philip in?

She gives me a tender look. No, honey. Philip is not in.

Did he go to work? When will he be back? I need to talk to him.

I’m sorry, Brenda. Philip is not here.

Are you his wife?

No, dear. No.

His daughter?

What? No. Brenda–

Sister, then?

No.

I’m indecisive on whether to leave or not. Maybe I should leave. Maybe I should come back later.

Why don’t you come in, Brenda?

That won’t be necess–

The lovely lady opens the door wider so that I can step in.

Okay.

She asks me to sit down on the couch. She sits down beside me and holds my hand. Her smile is full of sorrow.

Can I get you some tea? I should get you some tea. She decides. She goes to the kitchen and leaves me with the talking TV. I see a picture above the TV set. It’s the lovely lady and some man.

When she comes back with two cups of tea, I ask her who the man in the picture is.

That’s my husband, Robert. You’ve met him.

But I thought– you live here with your husband?

Yes, dear.

So where does Philip live?

I put the cup of tea on the table.

Something is wrong with me.

The lovely lady puts her cup down as well. She kneels down before me and holds both my hands.

My chest is becoming unbearable to carry.

That’s what I’ve been telling you every day, Brenda. Every day for a week you’ve come here looking for Philip. And you’ve asked me if I’m his wife. And each day, honey, I’ve reminded you who I am. Don’t you remember me? Lydia? We used to go for drinks on weekends when Philip was still around?

I don’t feel happy anymore. I don’t feel beautiful. Philip made me feel beautiful.

What are you saying? Philip doesn’t live here? But he moved here two days ago, didn’t he? We met–

No, love. Brenda, I think you need to talk to somebody.

I need to talk to Philip.

That’s the thing, honey. Philip, your husband, died a month ago. A bunch of us came to his funeral. You remember, don’t you?

To be continued.

Image Credit.

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