Vanish

They said it was your hair, some prefer the opinion of it being your enthusiastic social intelligence. Others pressed on your physical appearance, but whatever it was that drew me to you was a mystery. One that I am unwilling to uncover.

Most night I stare at you while you sleep, like I am doing now, perusing the details of your face. In fact, today I noticed that your lashes are longer than normal.

Other days, I stare blankly at the ceiling, with my fingers entwined below my thorax, remembering the first day we met and how things moved so fast since then.

I motioned and tucked a tuft of your blonde hair behind your ear. Your lids slowly slid open.

"Hey," you said. I kept smiling. "What are you doing awake?" You craned to the clock sitting on the nightstand. "it is just 1 am."

"Go back to sleep." I said in whispers, still smiling.

You cuddled into my arms and locked them around your chest. Spooning. My favorite position. I inhaled your hair and it smelt like apple.

"Do you remember the first day we met?" I asked.

"Of course love…" you craned and kissed me briefly, "Let's talk tomorrow."

After some minutes of silence, I said, "I couldn't get my eyes off you." It was like the hundredth time I told you that.

"And your hair was messy." You said nonchalantly.

"I was at the beach, my hair was supposed to be messy."

You turned to face me. Your pupils colored like a force field that sealed in wildfire. "I have a stressful day ahead," you said "I need to sleep."

I drew in, kissed you, again, and again before saying, "Dream of me love." I kissed you one last time.

We both closed our eyes, but after a minute or so, I opened mine. I would watch you sleep, praying the earth could spin a little faster and get bright so I could watch you bounce around with life.

I didn't sleep. I kept looking at you, smiling. At 4:47 am, three minutes before you woke up, you began to droll.

When your eyes finally slid open, I closed mine, pretending I was sleeping. I felt your lips press against my check. I liked that you pecked me every morning, it meant a lot to me.

My eyes were open to watch your long legs slide off the bed, and your night gown slice down on a heap.

You were an expert in setting the water temperature so I gave you a few minutes head start before jumping into the shower. Under the light pressure of warm water pouring from the showerhead, you wrapped your arms around my neck and placed your head on my thorax. Yes, I was taller. My hand clasped around your waist and we rocked to my soft humming.

You said that the vibration you felt on my chest when I hummed transmitted an arcane energy that reliefs you generally. As a result, you had me hum different soul music for twenty minutes or so.

Most times, I stop earlier because I begin to kiss you, as I did now. I liked that you were a tongue person. The way you wiggled your tongue like the chopped-off tail of a lizard—but slowly.

You didn't like the idea of sex in the shower, so we both scurried out. the moment you fell on the bed you yelled,

"Shit! Look at the time!" I craned and it was past 7 am.

"Maybe we rocked longer than we thought." I said and kissed you. when it began to get deep you reluctantly broke out and slipped under me. "I need to get dressed."

There was something about you that made the universe freeze, or go faster, whichever it was. It was like being locked in a dimension where the hands of time had no effect. I watched you hook your bra and the speed at which your legs dived into your trousers. You smeared red lipstick around your lip, grabbed your purse and stormed downstairs.

I followed behind, placing kisses around your neck.

In the kitchen, I girded an apron around my waist and began to break eggs into the frying pan, While you processed the coffee.

"My mom called yesterday," I said.

"Yea I heard."

"You did?" I momentarily craned to you.

"Nothing was playing through my plugs."

"Its harder to tell how you can read with your plugs on." I broke another egg.

"My thing…"

I felt you smile even though I was scrambling eggs.

"So you know she is coming next week?"

"Yes," You motioned to the cupboard and retrieved two cups of which one fell and splintered.

"Shit!" You cursed.

"Are you hurt?" I stepped forward and glass crushed under my slippers.

"I am fine," you said. "Watch your steps…and the eggs."

You filled your cup with coffee then tip toed behind me. You placed your coffee on the counter and wrapped your hands around me. You asked me to hum but, "One plate of scrambled eggs ready." I transferred the eggs to the plate. You held it on your hand and dug in, most of it falling to the floor.

"I can drive you to work if you want," I scratched my head, feeling gamey.

"No…you need to work," you murmured with a mouth full. "Joe sent me a text yesterday." You finally swallowed. "He said you haven't given him a chapter in three weeks and you don't reply to his messages."

"Well…we have..." I scratched my head, "I would give him a chapter today."

You pecked me and stormed off.

I ran upstairs to the library where my Mac book was charging. I broke it open and switched it on.

Joe's message pooped up. I drew my sit in and closed Joe's tab.

I wanted to tell him that this book he requested was an improvised work that needed the right energy to be written. But he would say, tap into your chthonic and uncan a canker worm.

I know…Joe can we weird. I clicked on a folder that read: Married. I sat back and began to watch clips from our wedding. Any scene Joe's grinning face pops up, my work begins to haunt me.

But your face...your face seems to stabilize everything. On tape, there wasn't a scene without a smile glued to my face. I was immensely happy and could feel the joy wiggle my toes.

There was a scene I was caked, and you came into view and licked it off. There was also this scene where you stepped on my toes while dancing and almost tripped, but I was there to balance you.

Hours later, however, I was staring at the blank page on my screen. Trying to phantom the best start-up phrase but nothing felt right.

I would type pages then suddenly wipe them and iterate. Meanwhile, in my head, it was rolling like a film.

Joe's message popped up again, containing so many exclamations. I picked my phone from the desk and dialed his number. He picked immediately.

"You put me on do not disturb?!" he barked and I had to remove the phone from my ear.

"Joe…Joe…" he wouldn't let me talk.

"Three weeks! I even had to call your wife!"

"Joe," I finally got space, "like I have told you, these things—"

"Needs more time…well you are running out of time…I need a new chapter!" he hung up. What an a*sh*le.

I wasn't even working on the story Joe barked for.

I craned back to the blank screen. How would I start a story where Jesus would be born in Nigeria, in the year 1971, a year after the civil war? Picking Him from history and placing him in 1971 with the normal philosophy of the world—excluding his birth.

Of course, the idea of Christianity would stick around and the Old Testament would exist, but the prophecy suspended. I knew telling the public I had a story like this would cause a stir in people's mind and increase the anticipation.

The idea was incubated at a certain time: I fell into rigorous research. starting with reading the Old Testament; grasping and absorbing the culture to be able to foretell the future ethos of Christianity up to 1971 without His birth of course. Then I read the history of Nigeria predated at least a hundred years back. When I was done, I rewrote their history and painted another colonial power, Portugal, into the picture.

My initial excitement about its potential success was high. But like every creative process, my heart once leaping with excitement became stale. I began to doubt the worthiness of the work. My mind narrowed, and my bank of ideas dried up. I didn't get the zeal to do anything for weeks, crawling to months.

Then, on a sunny afternoon, I decided to go to the beach to watch the waves push forward, and maybe to rest my gaze on something enticing. It was at this beach I met you and my world froze.

Fast forward a month and we are happily married; sleeping and waking next to you, kissing and touching you, eating and bathing with you. It was like a dream come through.

I looked at the blank screen wishing I could project my thoughts on it. I kept staring at it.

My eyes slid open. I noticed I fell asleep. Yawning, I stretched and my spine cracked. I motioned up to browse the library for books that might spark ideas. Brushing through the shelves, I sliced Robert's Mastery, then my gaze caught Amaeze's Fresh Waters.

I read from the middle of Fresh waters. After reading a page, I realized I wasn't actually reading it.

Why can't I stop thinking about you?

I padded back to the shelf to place the books back so I can watch more videos of you.

My heart momentarily stopped at what I saw. Part of a gun was visible from the space the Freshwaters was meant to occupy.

I slowly removed the books obscuring the gun. When I removed the last one, its weight landed on the wooden shelf.

It was actually heavier than I initially imagined. I held it by the tip long enough to place it on the desk next to my laptop.

Did you drop this here?

I grabbed my phone and dialed your number, but hung up immediately. I should wait for you to return, I thought. Meanwhile, my heart beats like a horse on canter.

I always felt at home engulfed in my library's earthy smell and dampness. Now, however, like something been infected with a virus, it became uncomfortable. I was sweating profusely.

Profoundly appalled, curious, and terrified, I picked up my phone and dialed your number again. I couldn't wait. I wouldn't tell you about the gun, rather I would say, I think I am sick love. Your number diverted to voice mail and my heart ached.

I reached for a book from the shelf and placed it over the gun; the sight made me sick.

I revived my laptop. My trembling fingers punching the wrong buttons most times as I sent you a mail. I stared at my screen awaiting your response, but nothing came. I began to panic.

Ten minutes later nothing popped up.

I dialed Jane's number and she picked immediately.

"Hello," I said, my hands trembling and my voice little. There wasn't time for pleasantries so I asked, "Where is my wife?"

"She already left?" it was too early for you to leave the office.

"But she isn't home yet."

"uhm, yes, uhm, okay thank you."

I hung up.

You didn't have friends, neither were your parents alive, so my options were limited to a list of two people, of which Jane was ruled out. The other was your brother, Justin.

His line rang for a whole minute before he answered. I didn't ask him about you but observed if I could hear your effect in his voice.

I had come to accept that your presence had arcane effects on people. Personally, my vocal cord softens, and my tone becomes more relaxed.

I finally admitted that you weren't at your brother's place. His tone wasn't calm. in fact, his background was filled with the cries of babies.

"I see you have a lot on your hand." I said.

He instantly noticed the change in my tone and asked if I was okay.

"I am fine, it's just a cold," I sniffled.

Before he hung up he asked about you but I said nothing.

Now I had to wait for you to come back and explain what a gun was doing in our library.

I padded to the north window that hovered from ground to the ceiling and huddle myself by it. The sun was dying, and it was getting dark. Streams of thought flowed into my head. I was expecting a reasonable, orthodox explanation.

Maybe you had secretly uncovered the mystery around your father. And he was, in fact, a hunter that liked to collect animal skin to make exuvia for his collection. And on his will, he left you the pistol you left behind the books. On the other hand, maybe it was your brother's and you were helping him keep it. Did you buy it for our protection? I mean it's crazy world.

I had insidiously forgiven you and you had not even shown up. A kind of defensive voice had emanated into my head, stating acceptable viewpoints that got broader by the second.

When the day was much darker and the asphalt was washed in the yellow light of the street lamp, I was biting my nails. When I see a headlamp appear in a distance, I get tensed, only for the car to drive by or cut into our neighbor's garage.

On my phone, it showed that I had dialed your number past hundred times. Still, I punched the call button again and pressed the phone to my ear, hoping it wouldn't divert for the hundredth time.

At this point, I was ready to take anything. I just wanted to see your face, kiss and hold you. Even if the gun belongs to you, and you were an assassin of some sort, or if it was defensive and you came pouring stories about you being on the run, chased by a misanthropic boss or whoever, I was ready to adjust to whatever lifestyle anchored to you.

One month was a quick time to know everything about you. I knew some other characters and behavior might suffice; as I noticed early this morning when you drooled. But I never imagined something so absurd. A gun? What happened to your innocent smile?

I decided to tell the time offhand rather than looking at the clock over the shelf to reduce my anxiousness and naively believe it was earlier than 11 pm.

11 pm last week Monday, i remember vividly, you entered the library where I was watching videos of you rather than typing. I immediately minimized it. You stood by the door clad in your voile nightgown and bit your lips seductively. And like a child who had just spotted his mother, I ran to you.

Now, however, I was still huddled by the window, hoping your long legs would walk through the door. I want to tell you how hot it was that you had a gun, and how disappointed I was that you never told me.

Fast-forward one week when the police had not brought positive news, when my mother was at the door knocking; when my corpse lay in a pool of blood beside a pistol, when my soul hovered around the library still hoping you might come back.

How could you just vanish?

**End**

When she breaks up with you for no reason, when she dies suddenly, when she leaves without warning, when she vanishes!

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