Foretaste

Hello there! :) I've been so busy and too lazy to write lately, reading instead. I've been working on my own novel for almost a year now and from time to time I loose inspiration, like right now. So I thought I'd share an extract from it and hear what you think. Feel free to share your thoughts. {Be warned, it's lengthy, you can take a seat :)}

IT WAS A cold windy night and he just couldn’t get her off his mind, she just wouldn’t leave. They had spent the day together, organizing something at church. They ran around town, shopping and being silly. Then they cooked and baked together. It was a mess. Not the food that is (the kitchen was Mpilo’s playground), but the whole experience. It messed everything up. It aroused all those emotions and brought back all the memories. And now he couldn’t sleep.

He counted sheep and winked his last at 01:45. He had dream after dream, her characterizing each of them. In the first they were happily back together again, in the second he was looking for her in some weird big school, finding her at a pool area. In the last they were fighting, but he didn’t know what they were fighting about. He thought this was the fourth.

He could hear singing, her singing. It sounded as if she was right outside. She was singing Phil Collins. This was definitely a dream; she always said she didn’t like Phil’s voice. But she knew him and his songs because she was forced to listen to him, it was all he played in his spare time. But he had suspicions that she grew to like him. That’s how their relationship worked, they grew to like each other’s likes. She now liked animals and all things related to nature because of him. He liked baking and singing, even though he didn’t have the voice for it. The singing got louder, and sounded more real. He blinked his eyes open, staring at the corrugated iron roof through the dark. He could see a few drops of water caused by his perspiration and the heat waiting to fall onto his bed. He still heard the singing. He thought of pinching himself. But he bent his head to his right to check the clock instead. It was 04:45.

“She can’t possibly be outside in this cold, it’s the middle of June” he told himself.

“Anyway, she’s still sleeping” he convinced himself, closing his eyes again, sleep suddenly overwhelming him. But the singing went on, moving from the chorus to the second verse. He got up before his brain could agree with his body, his heart had taken charge. Something inside him told him she was outside, waiting on him and he had to hurry. He didn’t wait to put his shirt on; he just pulled on the jeans which were hanging over the black and white tv and slipped on his slippers. He marched to the door, unlocked it and met the freezing winter morning breeze. The air was thick with smog; smoke already oozing through chimneys, chasing the cold away. The icy breeze hit his chest so hard he could feel his skin tightening and growing with small bumps. He thought to quickly draw back and grab a shirt, but there she was, his Princess. Dressed like an Eskimo against the cold and her voice shivering because of its effect. In fact, she looked like a ball of wool, considering her height, which was shorter than the average seventeen year old, and all the cloths she had on. He wanted to laugh. It was still dark outside but the street light close by shown orange like a setting sun. He searched for her eyes behind the beanie and hood. Her eyes were the best story-tellers. He could always read her anger, her happiness, her pain; her every emotion through her eyes. He always referred to them as the windows to her heart. When his eyes met hers, his body immediately forgot to feel cold. She was back at the chorus, she was almost whispering the song now.

“Cause I can’t stop loving you, No I can’t stop loving you, No I won’t stop loving you. Why should I?”

Though her voice was shivering, she sang with such firmness you could almost hold it in your hands, she meant those words. She fell silent; her eyes now glossy with tears.

“You shouldn’t” he said breaking the silence.

He walked down the two steps and embraced her. He was perfectly tall, her head resting naturally on his chest. She let the tears out.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m not making things easier” she mumbled under the cover of his arms.

“But I just can’t help it; I can’t live like this anymore. It’s like…it’s like I’m not breathing.”

He said nothing but smiled and held her tight. They both said nothing for a while, her warm tears falling gently on his cold arms.

“Well I’m going to stop breathing if we keep standing here” he spoke up. He heard her giggle.

“I never knew hot people like you could feel cold” she joked as she pulled away, wiping the tears from her eyes with the her palms.

“Wanna come in?” he offered.

She thought.

“What time is it?”

“Five or something.”

She thought some more.

“You’ll say you went for a jog” he answered her thoughts.

“In this cold and with these clothes?” she asked raising her eyebrows.

He smiled.

“It was a walk then” he improved.

She squinted.

“Don’t worry, they already think you’re crazy.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed fixing a fist and playfully hitting him in the stomach. He bent, pretending to feel pain.

“You punch like a girl” he teased. She fixed her fist again.

“Okay, okay, I take it back.”

“Let’s walk then” she teased back.

He held her hand and walked into the room with her. He switched on the lights. The room was warm from the heater he had on. It was small and cosy. There was a ragged closet to the left, a table-slash-cupboard in the corner, a telly on a chair in the middle with the bed on the other end of the wall.

‘Very boyish. No pictures, no colour, no effort whatsoever’ she thought. She looked at the tired curtain that hung against the window then the carpet on the floor that looked like it lived through a series of floods. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed all this before, but then she remembered this was her first time in his room; he always made sure she didn’t make it all the way in. He looked over to her.

“No you are not changing my carpet or removing those curtains, or changing anything else, I like it just the way it is” he firmly stated.

“It hasn’t even crossed my mind” she lied.

“But you could use a few flowers and a little-”

The look on his face interrupted her.

“Okay, okay” she gave in.

He set the TV on for her while he worked on some breakfast for them.

“You need to get a few chairs in here” she shouted springing up and down on the bed, seeing it was the only seating in the room.”

He smiled and went on to butter the bread.

“Interesting how things work in this household” he said setting the French polony sandwich and black Rooibos tea before her. He wasn’t the richest of fellows, growing up with his grandmother because he had nobody else, living in a shack backroom while gathering money for his studies. She clutched her cup of tea and looked up at him naughtily. He was still without a shirt, she had begged him not to wear one. His muscles, length and complexion made a deadly handsome combination.

“How is that?” she said returning focus to his face.

“The husband gets to do everything” he rolled his eyes.

“A privilege that many can’t afford” she said giggling.

“Is the sugar enough?” he asked as he observed her taking the first sip.

“How many?” she asked.

“Five.”

“And yours?” she asked again.

“Four.”

“Then it’s enough” she said smiling.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Well I’m the woman here, I can’t have you be sweeter than me!” she exclaimed. They laughed together.

They shared a priceless and unforgettable moment that winter morning in that little back room. They had breakfast together and argued over every detail of the morning news show. They were excellent at arguing and to a certain extent, enjoyed it. Before they knew it, it was 07:30 and the sun had already made its way up. It was Saturday so she wasn’t rushing for school. She did the dishes in the small plastic basin he kept in his room while he dressed up, and then he walked her home. A silence reigned as they walked. The street was now alive with people making their way to work and kids sent to the spaza for some bread.

‘What does this mean? Does this change anything?’ Mpilo questioned in her mind. They had separated three months ago. Two years they had spent together. Literally, together. They did everything together, except sleep together. But what now? Did the past two hours erase the past three months? Would they rebel against God and resume their relationship or would they submit their will and obey?

What now?