Sunday afternoons are perfect for telling romantic stories.
As you sit in your bedroom, able to witness from the window the sun hitting the earth so fiercely that it could light a fire. With the wind blowing in through the open windows sending relief to your sweaty body. With the sound of the swishing tree leaves that obey the wind without resistance coming at you with the welcome wind.
With your white sleeveless vest worn with nothing else underneath because you are feeling hot and you are sweaty and you don’t want anything that clings to any parts of your body, because you want your pores to breathe. With your hair hanging as loosely as your oversize vest. With a bottle of water sitting beside you. With melting ice cubes floating inside the water. Cooling it and making the bottle sweat. With the irony of a water bottle sweating alongside a sweating you, only that your sweat is from the heat while the bottle’s is from the cold contents. With a pair of ear phones stuck inside each of your ears and Lifehouse promising to climb over some Barricade. With your laptop sandwiched between your parted legs that have created room for it to rest on the bed.
Sunday afternoons are for typing on the keyboard as you pause to sing along to this song you know by heart: “I’m climbing on top, right over your barricade, never gonna stop, there aint no keeping me away.” They are perfect for telling that nice story about a man and a woman who had a thing going. A friendship that was so strong that it wasn’t just friendship anymore. So strong that they would find their way to each other’s lives even after being in relationships with other people.
These afternoons are for telling how the two lost touch of each other and went without communication for a very long time. How one day, a while after the quiet spell, the woman decided to find out how her long lost friend was doing.
How on hearing his friend’s voice over the phone, the man was so excited that he decided to drop everything he was doing to go and meet the woman. “I have to see you” he said to her.
How he drove frantically to find her, reaching her in a record twenty minutes. How on seeing her, he could not contain his excitement. How he hugged her and kissed her without asking if it was ok to do so. And because his heart told him it was ok to do so. And since sometimes it is good to follow your heart, how the woman returned his kisses. How she felt lost in his eyes and his arms. How all the memories flooded back. How the man took her to a restaurant nearby and bought her exotic food. How they decided to retreat from the rest of the world for hours.
Sunday afternoons. That is when you will hear of how seclusion offered those two uninhibition. How they tore off each other’s clothes and breathed into each other’s faces and crushed into each other as they merged into one; the lady remembering how it felt then, and happy that he could still ignite the same feeling in her. How the man could not believe at that moment in time, how he had managed to stay away from such sweetness. How the two rolled in bed, each eager to satisfy their sexual needs that had been neglected for a while too long. How their lust allowed them to open up and feed each other’s desires. How they synchronized their powerful explosions that shook them to the core. Leaving them still struggling to catch their breaths half an hour later.
These afternoons are for narrating how the two fell asleep together that late afternoon in that hotel room somewhere in Nairobi. Man and woman from the past. Now in the present. Both happy that they were in each other’s lives again.
They are for writing how an hour later, they went after each other’s bodies again. This time slower. This time less hungry. This time more meaningful and intense. This time, allowing themselves time to linger. To touch. To kiss. To smell. To look. To Savour.
They are for informing you how, when the time came, she was unable to stop herself from screaming. She never was. Not with him.
How they got out of the hotel room eventually. Each with a smile spread across their faces. And him offering to drop her home in his car.
Sunday afternoons are for allowing you to see him opening the passenger’s door for her to get in. Him closing the door gentlemanly as soon as she was seated. They are about showing you how he went round, and got inside the car to sit on the driver’s seat.
How he opened the dashboard of the car. How he took out a ring. How he wore it.
How she gave him a questioning look. How he offered an answer: “I couldn’t bear to taint the ring. It was blessed in church.”
How she looked at him in bewilderment. How she questioned in her mind who his wife had married; the man or the ring. How she felt sorry for that wife. That wife that has a husband who values a ring more than her. A husband who thinks that it is the ring that is obligated to be faithful, to stay untouched but not him.
Sunday afternoons are perfect for showing you how this woman witnessed the hands that were all over her body a while ago, collaborate to slide a ring onto one of its fingers. How she finally discovered that some men take the phrase ‘With this ring, I thee wed’ way too literally.
Sunday afternoons are good for noticing that what you intended to be a romantic story of love, is instead a story about betrayal and infidelity. O well. They are also ideal for closing the Microsoft Word document that you have typed furiously onto for the last thirty minutes, and choosing instead to slide a CD inside your laptop’s disk compartment to watch a movie.
Don’t you agree?