The Visit (Part 1)

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The Visit

Part 1 

Finally, she had agreed to visit him. To visit him at his university hostel. He still couldn't believe it. She had actually accepted. How else could a guy like him be lucky with a girl as beautiful as she was? It had even gotten better when she had arrived. She’d insisted that she would be the one to cook their lunch. He felt like he was in a dream, kept pinching himself—it was happening, it was no dream. She’d cooked for them. Cooked the only food he had left in his small hostel room.  

He’d used his only remaining pocket money to buy it, leaving him empty and dry. Empty and dry, yet he hadn’t felt any fear in his heart about the days ahead when he would have to face being broke. He was a man risking it for the woman of his dreams. How many chances could he get? Not only had he bought the food, but he’d also paid for her taxi fare to come. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have come. Again, how many chances can a guy like him get? 

He had met the girl at a recent cousin’s wedding. He believed God had done it, seating her at the same table with him. He’d noticed her at once—a girl with beauty that rocked the wedding. God had done it again, this time through another cousin, a friend of the girl, who had introduced them.

The cousin, while introducing them, had mentioned that the girl had just finished high school and was waiting to start college. He thought that was what he’d heard; otherwise, he could not remember paying much attention to anything other than the girl’s beautiful smile while they were introduced.  

Her beauty was stunning, complemented by a smile that could light up the room and she had a figure unlike any he had seen. She carried herself with a flare of majesty and carefree confidence. His heart soared at every chanced sight of her. He had never experienced love at first sight. Did it have a definition, any particulars? This was it—love, love at first sight. 

He still remembers that evening, but not every part, only the parts with the girl in them. He remembers his cousins going off to dance and mingle; he remembers remaining seated, locked in conversation with the girl. He’d learned her name, tasted every word she said about the food, about the wine, about the groom and the bride. Tasted her shy laughter and her bold love for cake. He remembers being drawn to her in a wholly different way. He was unsure if he had ever felt what he had felt at that wedding, that night, at that table. He remembers the night flew by fast—he had never wanted it to end. Not ever. She had captivated him completely. 

That night, it was crazy—his mind had wandered as they spoke, struggling to find the words to express the surge of emotions inside him. There were things he had not said right and many things he could have said but didn’t. His heart had raced, unsure of how to play the game—he could feel, see the ball bouncing in his court, but he didn’t know how to score or pick it up. 

Eventually, he had mustered up the courage to ask for her number as the music wound down, as people left the floor to go home. His hands quivered as he saved it into his phone. For the next week, he just stared at her number on WhatsApp, on his phone with a cracked, cracking screen, unsure if he should text her, unsure what he would say or what her reply would be. Would she take time to reply or reply fast?

He was unsure. When he finally brought himself to message her, the only way he could begin was to ask if she’d gotten home safely that night. She had replied politely. She had gotten home well, of course. They exchanged a few more irregular greetings over the following weeks, but each exchange felt stiff, uncertain, unsure. 

Then, after several back-and-forth messages, mostly inquiring about her days, how they were spent, how she was doing and sometimes what she was doing when he ran out of words, he’d finally gotten around to asking her if she could visit him at his hostel. He could not think of meeting her anywhere else, could not manage a decent meal outside. She’d hesitated but ended up agreeing, saying she could only stay for a few hours—after all, she still lived with her parents. 

Now, here she was. She had cooked. They had eaten. All the while, they’d had conversations that kept breaking at the loss of words. There had been a few shy nods between them, here and there. Time had leapt forward so fast to his dismay. Now, there she was sitting, sitting on his small, basic bed, folding his clothes at his shy request, while the TV played her favorite soap opera.  

Thank heavens, he had a TV for an ally where words failed. Peeking outside, he could see the pink twilight seeping through the window, casting soft shadows around the room. Time was running out. He paced the room. His heart was racing, his mind whirring—what next?

He wanted her to be his girl. His girl going forward and forever. He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to spend the night in his bed, though small and quite squeaky. He wanted to say words—sweet, soothing words—but searching his mind and heart, he only found feelings without words to explain them, without words to bear them to her ears. He felt failed—failed by his lips. He was getting impatient and could feel a rush of tremor in his legs. 

The room felt like it was closing in, suffocating him with the weight of the unspoken. He paced to the washroom, pretending to brush his teeth. Pretending to be busy to compensate for the gap in their lacking conversation. When he returned, she was still focused on the TV, her hands moving methodically, folding and refolding his T-shirts, his trousers, his sheets.

For a moment, he watched her fold the clothes, puzzled by her effortless mastery. He wiped his face with a towel and threw it on the bed. His mind was a spinning pin. He pretended to hum some song while he sat down beside her on the bed, then got closer and closer and closer, only to be stopped by the folded clothes between them. 

She never noticed. She didn’t turn. The TV held her gaze. Her hands kept working. He tapped her shoulder—the soft fabric of her blouse felt warm under his fingers. She turned, her eyes meeting his for the briefest moment before she smiled. That smile—it made him feel helpless, small, like the boy he really was beneath the bravado. His lips made a timid, cracked smile. His hands trembled.

He felt the night lurking, its shadow starting to creep in and soon she would leave. The thought of her walking out of that door felt like a thousand knives in his chest. It felt like a big mistake, letting her walk out of the door without words, without his words bearing his feelings being slipped into her ears. 

He wanted to say those words. He could feel them starting to form. His mind was drawing up a plan. His heart pounded. His lips stammered things; words could not be born fast enough. The girl was starting to look away—her favorite part of the TV show was playing. He needed her attention. He reached out, his hand resting on her thigh in blue denims. It was warm. She didn’t react.

Her eyes stayed glued to the screen. It was her hands that paused, holding his T-shirt. He panicked. He hesitated. He paused. He felt a surge, an electric wave of emotions rush through his whole body, like tidal waves. He never stopped to think—and he should have. In the slimmest fragment of a second, his hand left her thigh, pushed the folded clothes away and his lips found hers—awkward, stiff, unmoving. 

For a moment, the world seemed to want to pause, things slowing and hanging in the air. And then everything unraveled so fast. In no time, she was underneath him, pinned on the bed. His hands moved faster than his thoughts, unbuttoning, tearing her blouse apart, fumbling with her jeans. He could feel her fighting, gasping, struggling, pushing against him, her fists landing soft punches on his arms, on his back. But he didn’t stop. He was too far gone. He didn’t want to stop. He couldn’t. His focus, his aim, his objective was singular: to have her undressed. His body was burning with a desperation he couldn’t control. How could he? 

Her tears came first, hot and silent. Then she started to groan and heave. Then she started to scream. Her hands no longer threw soft punches. They clung to the zipper of her jeans, hurting. The edges of the zipper were tearing into her skin and her knuckles were turning red, fighting to keep her jeans in place. His hands gripped the zipper too. His strength overpowered hers. She didn’t give up. She screamed louder and louder and louder. Then, as if deep in sleep, the loud screams started to trickle through, like someone in danger screaming for help. The sound of the screams was persistent, piercing through the fog in his mind. 

It was like waking up—a girl in tears, screaming as loud as she could under him. He was horrified. Suddenly, his grip loosened. Her sobs cut through stranding veins of his heart, clear and sharp. He stopped. He pulled back, lifting himself off her slowly, like a man waking from a terrible dream. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. His hands were shaking, his breath uneven. In horror, terrified, he turned to look at her. 

She was a mess. Her hair tangled, strands all over her wet face. Her blouse torn and ripped apart. Her jeans halfway unzipped. Tears were streaming down her face. She trembled as if breaking in all places. She could not control her sobs. He saw her body start to curl up, slowly folding to hide the innocence, the shame of her nudity from a world without pity and control. He thought, he wished he could go back in time. How else do you erase such shame, such disgrace? 

Slowly, he slid off the bed, sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the bed frame. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them. What had he done? It was only the girl sobbing and the TV rumbling on that could dare make a sound. 

EzroniX Short Stories.