Am Back...or Maybe Not

'I love how you make you spinach. I miss your food', he said.

That day, she walked to the bus stop with him, hands intertwined. That day she talked a lot. She had sat in his room that smelled of marijuana and stale blankets. The murk in the sink, though of putting, was bearable. In any case, she was only there for a few hours. That day, she ignored the sink of dirty dishes. She flinched when he scooped a spoonful of peanut but and dumped it in his spinach.

'That is not how I treat my spinach with peanut butter ', she wanted to tell him. She shut up, ignored the dirt, murk and adulterated food. Her eyes focused on his smile and her ears his voice.

He has a nice voice that goes down to a drawl when he is speaking nice things. His laugh, she can't remember his laugh. That was the same drawl that told her,

'I stopped loving you',. But before then, they laughed and smiled. He was her world, her eyes only had him and she could feel the envy and admiration of everyone else. They were back together, the passion re-ignited by the long distance, two years apart and brokenness.

He was different. Good and Bad different. One evening, he sent some money, promising to send more. A month before her birthday, he took her out to a high end restaurant, The Chef Choice. She looked at him apprehensively, calculating the amount of money in her account. Her anxiety was for naught.

Her anxiety, though to be frowned on, was not unfounded. One day, during a date, she had to meet a greater part of the expenses. Since then, she declined an invitation to eat out. She was a good enough cook, she had told him.

The day spent at The Chef Choice reminded her that she was a woman to be treated well and valued. It was one of the fewer good memories.

They developed a habit of commuting from work. He came from hospital and she met him midway. They walked through the evening crowd, their conversation punctuated by mild banter and serious life plans. One day, on the way home, they stopped at the supermarket. She gave him her bag to hold, when out, he had disappeared.

She called but he was not picking up. She was mildly worried and mildly frustrated. He re-appeared and said,

'You don't trust me',. She was tongue tied. She didn't know why he would make such a conclusion. She didn't explain herself, could not.

The first time they had sex, she felt cold. Detached. She saw his ex-girlfriend, her temporary replacement on him, riding him. She felt inadequate. She fumbled with his dick, trying to find a position. Her legs hurt.

'I want to come in your mouth', he said amid the cold fuck. She shivered a little and shook her head. She gave up on her half assed attempt of a blow job. She tried to get back on top of him, feeling her heavy body slumping on him and failing to get up. He leaned forward and whispered that he needed to sleep. Confused, she got off him, slept beside him, holding him. Hoping that their bodies would regenerate some residual heat. Their bodies were cold. They might as well have been corpses.

He left that morning, early, in his mum's car. She kissed him, feeling his smelly mouth and ignoring it. Love was acceptance, smelly mouths in the morning or not.

He was trying to be a better man. As the bigger woman, she tried to stay and cheer him up. He joined her savings group and his mum's savings group. He called and affirmed her. Then he stopped. She had settled into the norm, she did not notice anything.

'When, when did you stop loving me?' she asked, laughing hysterically.

'2019', he said.

'Oh dear, I have become one of those girls. The girls who wait hopelessly', she laughed and he laughed too.

'I mean, I dated myself for two years. Btw, I think I have stopped loving you', she laughed again. He laughed too. She wanted to ask him why she was laughing. She couldn't. The next morning, she cried. Her last cry.

Someone said that no one can be stopped from reconciling with their exes. However, of the sex is cold, that's the right time for them to leave. She wished that she had read that hypothesis a little earlier.