When pigs fly when pigs fly I will
Uncross my fingers and promise you things I can keep. M&O
I could feel him eating me with his eyes. It was a longing under-carried by desperation. But, when you think about it isn’t all attraction, all love, a form of desperation, a desperation that centres itself, makes itself important, inflating itself and suffocating what surrounds it, including its owner?
I met his stare and smiled. I smiled because it is expected of me. Showing a flash of teeth, I lifted the anchors weighing down my lips. I smiled because that is what I am supposed to do when men show me their teeth me. I could sense what he was looking at, looking at and not seeing. I was curves and a fun time to him.
Depending on how it were to turn out, I would have been a good story, a story he could use to cement his manhood with his friends and his male family members. He would further be embraced into The Tribe of Men, selected by his brethren, and soon to be one of them, an Arbiter of Manhood.
He did not see inside me, did not see the pains and the hurts. He did not see the hot dark squirming things that are the makings of me. It is good he did not see. He looked like the type to run away screaming at a hint of undiluted womanness.
The laws of the universe dictated that he smiled at me when he caught my woman eye. They dictated he make a grab at me, a coy pass that was aware of its own coyness and therefore not coy. But, he was not interested, not in the things that matter about and to me. His only engrossment was my body. He was checking a box without thinking and questioning why he needed to check it in the first place. Socialised instinct.
I left him behind in that place of loose promises and vain hopes. He did not follow me out. He was comfortable in that papier-mâché place. I was grateful for this. Beyond the lights all men are black. His eyes followed me as far as they would go. The place is a refuge for fuckboys, a den of iniquities, rather, inequties, injustices. A place of imbalance. I was not comfortable or welcome there. Out I went, to tinsel town and beyond.
As I swept behind him and away, I glimpsed him playing SportPesa. He was paying too much attention, concentrating a little too intently to be gambling idly. He might have been a bookie, making predictions and calculating odds, not holding out for dreams of quick riches.
He is probably one of those smartish men who innately understand statistics, accurately predicting losses and wins. Maybe he was good for something. Maybe in a former, less jaded life, I would have called him with my eyes and let him take me to wherever he takes his women. But not in this life with its shininess and sharp edges.
This life called me to an online assessment for a potential job, it drew me to the second season of Mr Robot and to cups of tea sipped curled on the tattered sofa I was given by my cousin as a moving-out gift, into a bigger house that can hold my ambitions. On that sofa I see myself as I want to and see beyond myself in the writers I read and reread. On it I inhabit my daydreams and my nightmares, I drown in my light and dark thoughts. Salt and sugar both placed on my tongue and both savoured.
No, SportPesa fuckboy. Not now, not ever. Not ever again.