When I talk About Love (Part 1)

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When I Talk About Love 

Part 1 

It was evening. It was misty. It was chilly. The northern winds blew hard, had blown hard all day. All day, the weather had been dismally cold. My body was freezing beneath the heavy jacket. And there I was. At the coffee cafe. Sitting alone, my coffee going ice cold. Somehow, its thick scent still penetrated my melancholic thoughts even when it remained unnoticed, untouched. Why had I even ordered for it?  

Sitting there, in that café had inadvertently taken away the cold but left my mind floating and hovering over Dave; over the love we’d shared. It was the third day since our breakup, since our university graduation. 

Three days had passed, yet I couldn’t shake off the disbelief. He had left me hanging right after our university graduation. Our plans and dreams had been so tightly interwoven—it felt he was my future and I thought I was his. How had everything unraveled overnight? I tortured myself with that question, tears spilling uncontrollably. The waitress kept intermittently glancing over my table, surprised I could sit there, sit there in the open and cry. I didn’t care. 

Dave and I had planned to start our lives together immediately after graduation. We’d discussed it, gone over it again and again, reaffirmed our future on the eve of that final day. He had spoken of all the beautiful things; things he’d do to me, things he’d do with me, things we’d do with our children. Yet there I sat, tearful, clinging to empty promises, each one a sharp sting in a swelling tide of painful memories. 

He had walked straight out on me, as if oblivious of the three years we'd spent at university together—sharing classes and sheets; a path paved with affection and unconditional love. His beautiful, big, dark eyes had met mine one last time, his lips twitching as he dismissed our relationship. He had ended saying it had just been university fun. University fun going nowhere in the real world. That's how he felt. That’s how he left. 

Then I watched him stride away with his friends. Did he know that I missed celebrating my graduation with my parents because of him? That I spent that night crying instead of sleeping? 

I wanted to call him, to give my pain a voice in his ears. Perhaps he could reconsider, find a faint pulse for our love to hold on. I reached into my pink leather handbag—one of his many gifts—reminders of him taunting me from every corner, my hands trembled violently.  

When I finally tried to dial his number, my grip failed. The phone slipped from my grasp. I heard it bounce and bounce and then crash onto the café tiles. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t bother to tilt my head and see. I let it be. 

I was snapped from my daze only by a tap on my shoulder and a male voice tinged with concern. My eyes were wet, seemingly floating in a sea of tears, warm streams of tears made their way down my cheeks. The tapping on my shoulder persisted. I was not interested. It persisted. Slowly I turned my head. It was a male figure standing, towering over me. His hand still held onto my shoulder as the other placed my broken phone on the table. 

‘Ah, your phone,’ he said, I just sniffled, looked at it without a word, I could feel tears drying and etching onto my cheeks solidifying into sticky lines. I was making an effort to resist further tears from flowing. I could feel them, flooding my eyes. I caught the waitress’ stealthy gaze at the counter but she hurriedly looked away. 

‘Can I sit down with you?’ I don’t remember retorting to that. I was not interested in any trivial pities. The battle was mine. I was going to go through it on my own accord. I faced away, lowered my head over the table. I heard him pull a seat anyway and sit across, facing my wretched figure.  

I didn’t want to face him. I was half mortified by his presence given my piteous form. I was half angry at his unsolicited pity even if my beaten frame did ask for some of it. Peering down I saw the waitress’ feet come and again leave quietly. Within minutes they were back and off again. The ether around changed, reeking of fresh coffee and samosas. 

 ‘Excuse me,’ he called softly, I stole a glance, he was calling the waitress back. I looked down again. I saw the waitress’ feet, returning. 

‘Her coffee has grown cold, please, take it back. Bring her a fresh cup of hot coffee.’ His voice was steady and deep with an aura of authority hovering over it. Through my impaired senses, I considered he must be of a savory temperament yet his care was still irksome to my vexed disposition. His care was unwelcome but I didn’t dare say a thing. I wanted my peace and I reluctantly let the stranger be. I heard the waitress return. I saw her feet approach and stop at our, my table. I thought her Nikes looked great. 

‘Bring her some samosas as well,’ he said quietly, whispering. 

‘How many?’ she asked. 

 ‘I think a pair will do,’ he replied. 

‘Okay,’ she said. Her feet paced off in a hurry. I wanted to scream, let the gullible waitress know I could place my own damn orders but that energy was already expended. In no time her feet were there again, pacing off again reminded me of Dave walking away, running away from a love that he had nurtured and brought to readiness. That fool, he was a fool! Who readies a love when he himself is unready? I thought. It is the gentle voice that jostled me back. I was beginning to slip away again into the debris of the shattered relationship. 

‘Excuse me,’ he was saying, tears were starting the streams again. I kept my face down, playing deaf. 

‘Excuse me,’ he persisted, reluctantly I looked up while intentionally eschewing his face. I was now really mortified - who sits in an open place and cries like that? Did I not have a room I could do all this? 

He handed out a white handkerchief, I just looked at it, he remained holding it out for me. Then placed it on the table. 

‘Okay, suit yourself,’ he said. He picked up his cup of coffee, sipped and munched his samosa. I watched him place the cup on the table, it felt like watching a boring TV show. 

‘You’ve lost a lot of sugars,’ he suddenly said, ‘taking some of that coffee would really be handy in restoring them,’ There was something to his voice; gentleness, composure and an annoying calmness – I didn’t want to be calmed down, everything inside me was maddened. He took another bite of the samosa. 

 ‘Um! These things are sweet, you should taste them.’ He sipped his coffee. 

"Ahh…I've cried in a restaurant before, you know. It's hardly a classy thing to do. I can't claim to understand what you're going through but it must be painful if it brings you to tears here," he said. His concern sounded genuine, it was palpable and his words fell with a deliberate weight, calculated to find my horrified soul.  

Reluctantly, I picked up his handkerchief and wiped my face, the saltiness of my tears tasted like a faint solace, lightening the burden on my shoulders, just a touch. As I placed the damp cloth down, our eyes met. His half-smile softened his features; I allowed myself to think he was undeniably handsome, fair complexion, two subtle dimples on both cheeks and a neatly trimmed mustache. He appeared to be in his late thirties—a man marked by a kind, earnest demeanor. 

His lips casually tore into a full, broad, white smile, he knew how to use it and it struck right to my heart. I chuckled as I picked the cup of coffee. He looked glad that I was finally mastering my heavy emotions and encouraged me to taste the samosas as well. He could never have been more right. The samosas were sweet indeed. He must have noticed my immediate desire for more. He signaled the waitress and when she’d come, he sent her for two more pairs and more hot coffee.  

My mood started to relent, releasing me slowly from the mire of sadness and self-pity. As I sipped my coffee, crunching the busty samosas, he told me why he’d once cried in a café – his mum had passed away while he attended university in the UK. He was doing his final papers. There was no way he could have returned for the burial and not miss those papers and it was expensive. That evening he had cried himself out in the café by his hostel and nothing not even mortification could stop him. Unfortunately, no one had been there to intervene.  

That was sad, I expressed my sympathies but he smiled them off saying that it was too late. I laughed, he knew how to make sad things seem funny. In no time I was laughing, leaning in to hear more of his stories, sad or funny, I really didn’t mind. He finally told me he was Clarke as he solicited for my name. I told him, he thanked the chilly weather or he’d never have found me. He had come to the café just to burn off the cold with hot coffee when he found me. 

He kept pushing. His calm, gentle style of probing was not one I could tuck away. I opened up about Dave, the ungrateful boy that had dumped me. He’d duped me into falling for him. I told him about how it had started, about the dreams we’d shared and the life we’d envisioned to fashion for ourselves and how he’d left without an ounce of remorse. Clarke knew how to listen. He listened patiently. 

When tears escaped my eyes again, he picked the handkerchief, leaned in and wiped them off. He’d done it as if it were something usual, something engraved in his character. I was swayed. When I was done, with a glaring sympathy, he let me know that he understood my pain but that I had to move on, my life was just still lying ahead, wholly intact; soon enough I would encounter true love that knew how to stay. I wanted to believe. I think I believed him. He was sweet. He was believable. His sure way of putting things together about love and life was reassuring. 

I smiled. He smiled. He checked his watch. I wish he hadn’t, right about there I realized how the twilight had already transformed into night. How had I not noticed the lights go on in the café? He let me know it was half-past nine and that he was leaving. He had to work the next day. He asked for my number, joking that he still had more therapy sessions to do with me for my complete recovery. I chuckled. I read it out to him. He had a way with words. When he asked to drop me off to where I stayed, I reluctantly agreed even when it was nearby, walkable. 

He let me lead the way to his Mercedes. He, opening the door. He, closing it behind me. He beamed with a warm smile. He was in every inch the gentleman. As we drove towards my place, a strange realization washed over me—I was feeling better, unexpectedly so. How could I feel better, so quickly? I didn’t want to; I wanted to cling on to my anger at Dave, to haunt him with my wrath if I could. Yet, this stranger, Clarke, was making me feel secure, his presence oddly comforting. He drove in silence, occasionally turning to me with soft, reassuring grins. 

When we reached my place, he stepped out. He opened my door, offering his hand to help me come out. He insisted on walking me to my doorstep, saying it would ease his mind to know I reached safe. At my doorstep, he embraced me gently. His natural scent was calming. I closed my eyes, wished the moment would linger a bit. After a light tap on my back, he released me, his gaze felt warm as he smiled broadly.  

"Good night," he said, promising to call as soon as he got home—and he did. 

For the next two days, Clarke was diligent with his calls. In the mornings, calling to ask about my night and to wish me a great day ahead. In the evenings calling to lull me to sleep, he’d never hang up until he was certain I had drifted off. His voice was a soothing, a blend of authority and gentleness. He always curiously inquired about my day, how I was navigating the aftermath of my breakup with Dave. His calls were rich with humor; funny stories provoking bursts of laughter that often left me gasping for air, for more. 

Gradually, my thoughts began to drift away from Dave and our unrealized dreams. The sleepless nights filled with sorrow were replaced by hopeful daydreams and recollections of my recent talks with Clarke. Surprisingly, my appetite returned with a vengeance—something I hadn't expected so soon. It amazed me how quickly I was healing, a process I had thought would take months was unfolding in mere days. 

As each evening approached, anticipation grew. I found myself constantly glancing at my phone, each vibration or ring causing a flutter of excitement at the possibility of it being Clarke. Was I falling in love again? That fast? The speed of my recovery was unnatural, yet irresistibly welcome. The thought lingered: was it really possible to move on this fast? It felt almost surreal. 

Over the weekend. The weekend that followed, Clarke invited me out for dinner. He had suggested it the night before. I was eager for another evening together. Without hesitation, I agreed, excited by the prospect of meeting him again. He chose a charming hotel perched atop a hill, where at dusk, the city below, its lights twinkled, floated like stars on the water's surface. A live band was playing—perfect. I was charmed that he considered my adoration for music. 

That night, I wore a red dress, one of three Clarke had insisted on buying for me. His driver had delivered them to my hostel earlier, each dress fitting me perfectly. It was as if he had a sixth sense for my size and style. Overwhelmed by the choices, he had ended by letting me keep all three. His thoughtfulness was both flattering and utterly enchanting. 

As we sat there, the band serenading us, I was lost in the moment. We sipped wine. We enjoyed the serene ambiance. I found myself wishing this could be my life eternally. To hold the moment in place, pause it and make it last forever. Clarke, noticing my contentment. Noticing that I was ensnared, he leaned in, held my hands on the table. His gaze was intense yet tender. He confessed he liked me, he had felt complete for the last few days. My heart raced, my world tilting into new, exhilarating possibilities. 

Then, he surprised me. He asked if I would join him on a trip to Mombasa, Kenya. It was just the two of us. For my complete recovery from Dave, the stupid Dave. My heart leapt at the invitation—traveling there had always been a dream of mine. "Yes, yes!" I burst out. I was too excited to contain my joy. And then, as if he hadn't already swept me off my feet, he revealed that he had already purchased our plane tickets. I was stunned, thrilled, utterly entranced by the rapid yet beautiful turn my life was taking. 

Stepping onto the plane for the first time was surreal, like stepping into a dream. I didn’t want to wake up if it were a dream. I didn’t wake up—we landed in Mombasa. Arrived at the hotel, late in the evening and due to our fatigue, we opted for room service. The food was exquisite and the champagne was decadently rich—a taste of heaven. 

In our hotel, sitting on the expansive, luxurious bed, Clarke kissed my cheek and asked how I felt. I told him I was alright. He sighed, a sound heavy with concern. He reiterated his desire to make me happy. I was happy; Dave now was some distant, dream that I struggled to remember. My thoughts were consumed by Clarke—his name whispered continuously in my mind, stirring feelings of love that both dazed and calmed. 

I felt a twinge of guilt; our relationship had blossomed so quickly. I barely knew the man, he barely knew me yet here he was, offering me the best of life. I was ready to trust him, to give him my heart. I reassured him that I was happy. His ‘therapy’—as he’d called it the day we met—was working. He smiled, his joy evident as he declared my happiness his own and casually dismissed Dave as foolish. Reflecting on it, I felt a strange gratitude towards Dave’s departure; would he ever have given me such a treat? Unlikely. It seemed fate had cleverly steered me free into Clarke’s arms. 

As Clarke set his wine glass down, he leaned in, the world seemed to pause. His kiss was deep and stirring. Pulling back slightly, he whispered, "I love you." It was the first time he had declared his feelings so openly, making the air around us thick with intensity. I saw the room, I felt the bed vanish. It was just the two of us in this encapsulated moment. Afloat. 

I whispered back, "I love you," feeling as though these words tethered me to a new, undeniable reality. Clarke was the one. He was surely the one, my future. We resumed kissing passionately. 

Then he pulled back again, slightly, his expression shifted. The warmth in his eyes cooled into a serious, somewhat calculating gaze that pinned me in place. For the first time with Clarke, I felt cornered. Anxiety fluttered in my chest. What was wrong? Had I mis-stepped? Had I said something out of turn? 

“You’re now my girl,” he stated quietly but with a firmness that turned the phrase into something more commanding than endearing. His tone held an edge, a hint of possession that resonated like a threat. It was as if he was marking his territory, laying a claim so deep and irrevocable that it left no room for dissent. And to dissent seemed would perilous. 

For a fleeting second, the room felt smaller, the air tighter. I searched his face for the gentle man I had known and kissed seconds ago. I only found the hard lines of authority. This was Clarke staking his claim, not just on my present but my very will. Despite the sudden shift, a part of me rationalized his intensity as passion, the kind of bold affection of a man who knows what he wants and cherishes it fiercely. 

He watched me intently, his gaze piercing through my confusion and fear. His gaze was as if searching me to confirm that his words had been received. Having searched me out and then convinced that his words had been received, his lips returned to mine, resuming a passionate kiss that swept away the immediate worries into a night filled with fervor. The disconnect between his possessive words and the tender way he touched me left me oscillating between alarm and affection. 

The next morning, the atmosphere was light with the sweet remnants of our intimacy. We sat at the breakfast table, Clarke casually scrolling through his phone while I mulled over eggs and toast, the previous night's momentary tension seeming like a distant memory. Suddenly, Clarke's demeanor shifted; his body stiffened as he turned his phone towards me, displaying my WhatsApp status. 

"What is this?" His voice was calm but carried an icy sharpness that sliced through the morning's ease. I glanced at the post, a cheerful snippet from our trip and felt my stomach knot as I met his glaring eyes. 

"Why would you put our personal moments out there like this?" He pushed his plate away with a force that sent our breakfast clattering to the floor, his sudden fury palpable. My heart raced, the warmth of the morning sun replaced by a chilling fear. 

He placed his phone down. Left his seat, swiftly stepping over our breakfast on the floor. Standing, he leaned in, pinning me to the chair with a forceful grip on my neck belying the tender moments we had just shared, shared throughout the night.  

His hand rose menacingly as if to come down on my face as he seethed, "you need to learn about privacy!" His arm hung in the air, trembling with restrained aggression then, he slowly lowered it, the storm in his eyes not dissipating. 

He let me loose. I was shaken. I was confused as to what had just happened. I was afraid, a part of me thought he may not be what I thought he was but I quickly rushed through my feelings, shrugged internally, excusing him; he was just being protective of our steamy love. He stood there looking over me. I could see him struggle to soften his look. 

"It won’t happen again, I promise," I stammered, trying to pacify the tension. 

He straightened, looked down at our breakfast wasted on the floor. His voice softened but still firm, "Make sure it doesn’t. I don’t want our life displayed for everyone. And another thing," he paused, ensuring he had my full attention, "I don’t want to see anything about us or you on social media. It’s just us now." 

As he spoke, my mind wrestled with the implications. Was this protectiveness or control? His demands felt like shackles but I rationalized it as his way of guarding our relationship. I nodded, silencing the small voice inside me that screamed this was not right.

I told myself, some moments come in intense waves and perhaps Clarke’s were just stronger than most. Everything will be alright, the more he gets to know me, the more he loves me, the more we will be alright. Look at the life he gave me. What could I give for moments like these? These minor moments of out bursts were not going to deter our love. He was just an excitable being, I thought. I thought.  

He paced the room. Went to the window. I looked down at our breakfast on the floor. 

“Don’t worry about the breakfast,” he said, softly and calmly, “I’ll send for more.” I thought, there he was, my Clarke, he was back. He left the room. 

EzroniX Short Stories.