I can vividly see her - deep set of dark glassy eyes, long braids in the middle of her back, shiny forehead tanned by the sun, petite but not too petite, a 1.68m just suitable for me. That's my hypothetical girl. She's amazing; so honest with flaws here and there - spoiler alert: she has a weakness for deep hugs which I love because I love hugging too. To be honest everything she would like; I would get for her because she’s my one and only and that is not a guy lie; it’s the naked truth. She’s my lover, my baby, my creation. We see each other as often as possible; I actually see her most of the time because I can't get enough of her sight, and everytime we meet I remember that as a wee human somewhere on earth, someone thinks about me at night, and she smiles in the dark. I also think she looks at her screen during the day, shakes her head and smiles like a fool. Her co-workers look at her, inspecting her closely, and they ask her why - she doesn't tell them.
Shrill, shrill. My alarm goes off, startling me from my reverie, my fantasy. My girl is gone, and I decide to pour remnants of her into the story I'm writing. I grab my materials and start writing. I write with such force that: crack! The tip of my pencil breaks. Oh, that's fine. She is already captured and kept in the writing I am hoping to sell to a company somewhere. Ghost. Ghosting. Ghostwriting. I'm a ghost…writer.
This is my room. A table in one corner, a queen-sized bed in the middle covered with dull bedding: greyish bedsheets and a dark chocolate blanket, a dust bin in another corner, and the basket of my dirty clothes piled on top of each other. I think my love for hugs is contagious; I bet I will have to disentangle them when I finally get to do the laundry. There are books on my bedside table, petroleum gel sits near a two-bit deodorant I bought last night. On a chair in front of the said table I sit and open my hp computer. It hums. Good afternoon to you too. I think. Hitting the keyboard with a vengeance, I spill the passion for my girl onto the writing. I type hurriedly as if the words initially written by a pencil might vanish. God forbid. I think I am a good ghost…writer, or I can become one. I think I don’t have any other option actually except trying to be the best writer I can be because I don’t want to join some organizations somewhere and have them think I’m some fledgeling writer; hence, my courage to pursue a freelancing career. Apart from that, I'm also a good guy. I don't blow my own trumpet; I will let my girl do the honors of describing me.
I write with a million ideas swirling in my head. Here is one of them, "Java House Kigali Heights 3:00pm," the guy had said. I forgot his name already, but it's Kelly's I'm working for. I don't get why a PR company would be called that. It's not very flashy or that attractive for a PR company. You see… Kelly's could be a wedding planning company too... Why say wedding planner not restaurant? Because I want to get married to her. My girl. The girl of my dreams, literally. I am a red-blooded heterosexual male in my twenties, and getting off with some porn sometimes gets old. You start needing the real thing; you also need that companionship that comes with getting laid. You need someone you can pitch your ideas to before you even pitch them really; you need just an available person for you physically and emotionally - which is why the idea of marrying my dream girl makes too much sense. At this time despite the fact that I don’t really wanna be tied to anyone, I am desperate enough to be tied to her if she happened to pop out of my imagination.
Remembering the appointment, I shower in a minute, hypothetically. I dress as quickly as I can manage, pfyu pfyu some deodorant on me, and I head out. Before I elaborate on my destination and all; listen to this important tip I learned from my sister: remember to pfyu some perfume or deodorant behind your ears. Say like if you get to hug someone, have them hug you closely release them after you have heard them inhaling your smell. There! You are etched in their minds. As a hug addict, I found the tip very helpful.
We can continue now. I get out of my house, the sun is up above my head, I check my cheap watch. 1:30 pm; I do a quick calculation in my head - on a motorcycle it's 14 minutes to reach the destination while the bus would take approximately 40 minutes as Google Maps was so generous to inform me. Great. There shouldn't be any heavy traffic at this hour. I opt for the bike which is quicker and safer in my opinion. When I was on the motorbike, something interesting happened, but let me not go there. Assume this to be like when you are watching a movie alone, and you sincerely want to finish it all but then there are mundane scenes you want to skip. Unapologetically, you hit triple the speed on your remote.
Inside Java Janice and I sit. We are waiting for the guy at Kelly's who is taking forever to come. As a guy, I think he might be coming in another sense, or dimension. When we met, Janice had looked at me and smiled. She had stood up and greeted me with the bright smile plastered on her natural looking lips. Why did I notice? Guy stuff. Right now, she's doing much of the talking. She says will be sketching my story. She's a digital painter. Great. With her enthusiasm and passion emanating from her voice and composure, it feels like Janice is good at what she does. Now, my girl would come to life, and people would read about her from the illustrated small book. I think as we both order our iced coffee. She holds hers to cool her hands. It's hot outside but she's hotter than the scorching weather. Hell, I have a girl though hypothesized but very much alive to me. Janice should not be hot at all in my opinion, but she is.
Hit another triple speed on your remote.
Find us talking animatedly an hour later. It's Monday Brian the guy at Kelly's took a flight to France earlier today, their receptionist who contacted us said. She also added that the company trusts Janice and I to work on the story and deliver it in a week. Our facilities and food will be handled. Awesome. Praise the Lord oh my money. You have been saved from reckless expenditure; I might have been tempted to spoil the lady. I was raised right, women deserve the best they can get because well they’re simply lovely creatures when you meet the right one. I can’t wait to dive into our week; I shouldn’t be, but I am excited to work with Janice on this project.
Day one, we work on the project assiduously. We don’t talk as much as we had talked when we first met. After work, we trek to the bus station, and Janice tells me how she groomed her talent on the way. She's passionate about art. Her face is lit up as she recounts all the stories, stressing on her embarrassing moments; and I think she’s one helluva girl. The vagaries of her expressions has me wowed for a minute, but I recover.
Day two, we come to Java together; we work side by side all the time. Her laughter floats in my ears as we give a better name to the girl of my dreams - From Clementine to Carine. Again Janice stupefies me. I refuse to give it much thought though.
Day three, we work again, and we add more life to the story. Damn my ancestors were right, two heads are better than one. Going home, she pecks my cheek before hooping on the bus. I stare after the bus. At night I recall her so vividly. Crickets sing. Plump lips, neat brows, perfect height for my 1.80meters. Imperfect hourglass physique. Her eye twitches now and then. I am not on good terms with my memory. I am more aware of Janice than Carine, the girl of my dreams. Something is definitely wrong.
Day four: the spot Janice kissed yesterday longs for more. I look at her most of the three hours we work daily. On our way home, she tells me about ancient Greek mythologies, the stories of constellations, and I feel like she's an enticing fallen angel teaching a human being magic and heavenly secrets. She smells freaking…fucking great. Carine is forgotten. I want Janice.
Day five, we're on Friday. In June. Janice and I can get married in August. I think. I spend most of the time together touching her on every opportunity, looking at her intently. We walk in the night when she tells me about Orion - her favorite constellation. I don't wanna let her go; except that I have to. I hug her tightly as I remember that I don't know where she lives or with whom. I can't spoil this moment. I let it glide. At night I text her. "You're a beautiful woman." "I prefer to be called a beautiful lady instead." She responds. I stare at the reply trying to decipher the meaning. She intrigues me. I love her.
Day six, we meet and to my shock she has done every little detail we had left; I wonder if she got it done late at night when she couldn’t sleep just like I couldn’t. I hate it; I hate that the project is at the end, and I wish I could turn back the clock. It also dawns on me that we won't meet promptly tomorrow as we have been doing for the past five days.
I have to tell her. "I have to tell you something." I say
" Pray tell."
"I think I am in love with you, and I want to keep seeing you after this project. I am drawn to you." I blurt, a paper with a poem scribbled in my passable handwriting is burning in my pocket. She looks square in my eye; her expression unreadable. It’s as if her whole being went blank.
"I abhor men." She says as she leaves me sitting in Java house.
6 Years later. Me and my best friend sit in a cafe downtown in the evening as I recount the story to her; she keeps drinking her vanilla shake - her eyes glued on me. After that she looks at me and says. "All work, no pray. You should have asked God to help you out." She laughs so hard as she looks up Janice on Instagram. My best friend is a rather transparent being and I can see right through her. I guess she sees something shocking; her mouth agape and her eyes wide. I scoot over to see what she is looking at. To find that Janice is a proud lesbian who is married with two adopted kids. "Oh-oh" we say in unison.