I don’t believe in love.
I used to. I was young and gullible and he was handsome. Extremely charming too. So much so that I was always wondering why he chose me, of all the girls around. I am not blessed with a womanly body. I am certainly not beautiful. You couldn’t call me ugly either. I walk the fine line in between until the beholder decides.
He said he liked that I was exactly two hands full. Literally. It made me blush and giggle. I didn’t know I could make such a sound. It seemed foreign. Like I was listening to someone else. The pain will be gone in a flash. He was right. I think that’s the only truth he ever told.
I would dream of him while I helped Mama cook, silently wishing the clock would follow my instructions. Why will your hands not move now but pass so quickly later?
We would meet at the uncompleted building. Two streets down, a left then an immediate right. I thought Mama could see right through me every time I volunteered to go to the market but I told caution to wait a while.
It was a dream. He would read me poems he had written for me. I only understood a little English. Couldn’t read a word of what he wrote in his little brown note but I felt it. Oh I felt it! The way he would drag out a word, causing me to lose my breath. He promised to teach me how to read, then solve arithmetic. He said I’d begin to talk like an English woman.
So many empty promises, fiery looks and probing touches.
I rubbed our hidden creation. It might have been as beautiful as he.
I tightened the noose around my neck and kicked Mama’s favourite stool.