Hide Your Rainbow

No word comes from her well-moisturized lips the entire matatu ride. She has the window seat and uses it correctly. Staring dreamily as the part of the world rushes past us. A smile is playing on her lips. She is enjoying the rush. I am enjoying watching her watch the expanse we call our city under the sun.

At the final stop, she turns to me, as if noticing I was sitting there for the first time. Her lips, wearing the same smile she was posing to experience the outside, say, “I don’t know the city very well.”

I take her face in. It is coated in flawless melanin with eyes threatening to bore into me. It is my turn to shape my lips into a smile. I know the city. Very well. I see that she is about a head and a half taller than I am when we rise.

She walks a few paces behind me. She dons a trim modelesque figure in blue hipster jeans, a black corset and a cropped denim jacket. Her possessions are carried on her shoulder in a white trot bag. The weight of it all held by brown boots. She looks like she has stepped out of a fashion runway show and into the streets.

I can’t tell why she is in my house. Not that I want her to leave. Since the confession of not knowing the city, not many words have passed between us. Each time our eyes meet, I return the enchanting smile that seems to be plastered on her face.

I feel her behind me. There is no mirror on the sink so I can’t ascertain her presence. I finish dabbing my face on the towel and turn to meet her body obstructing my path. The smile which crinkles her nose. No words. Our lips meet and the rest is history.

Just kidding!

She removes every idea of clothing on my body save for the durag on my head. She makes me sit on the toilet seat then straddles me. Our lips linger on each other and her fingers find their way into me. When my head tips back and my thighs start lifting her, she moves us to the floor.

I am using my fingers to feel the depths of her while she is using hers on me. Gasps escape our lips momentarily, at times in unison but she doesn’t allow them to part.

There are no words. Only faint sounds and movements, most of which she pioneers.

Grinding and squeezing.
Moaning and shaking.
Clasping onto each other.
Grasping and throbbing.
Holding and riding.

In a flash, she extracts herself from my thighs looking distraught as if a revelation has dawned on her. Avoiding my stunned gaze, she stands and begins pulling up the jeans I worked so hard to pull down.

“I am sorry, I have a boyfriend.” You hear her small voice, as if regretting his existence. At least that is what I wish. Could what just happened be a source of regret?

When the soft thud of the door closing reaches me, I wish I had asked for only her name.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. dvbliew says:

    I wish this piece was longer. Like what happened after alighting from public transport to having fingers inside of people? Names are overrated.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I wish so too but I’ll tell you the genesis and why it couldn’t be.
      Are they? Because I want to know yours.

      Liked by 1 person

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