Michael: Might Be, My Cool

by Obui Amaechi

She had grown to hate how she felt around him.
She had come to accept how much self-control she lacked around him.
Her soul leapt in excitement when she saw him.
She recognised him and he knew her but he didn’t quite know her yet, nor did she him.
His eyes were black and circular and tightened to a downward point at each side.
He was taller, robust, and thickly slim. She wanted to devour him starting with his tongue.
She yearned for his fingers, inside her mouth, all at once, almost edible but impossible to swallow, dribbling, intoxicated by his power.

She wanted to be powerlessly in lust or love but powerfully alive with him.
He appeared dark and bold and powerful like the Universe and his many talents made him glow like the near but far stars in the night midnight sky.
At first sight she was impressed but ambivalent and as the year swept by she was lost in the idea of him.

As individual as fickle and as passionate as she, jack of all trades but the one, the one she wished he would master; her emotions made it almost completely difficult for him to please her.
Her want for him camouflaged his human inferiorities.
Irritated by his nervousness around her, but satisfactorily content with the attention he gave her which grew smaller and more pathetic every time they crossed paths.
She lowered her standards for him and the desperately shy boy took notice and like a mindful yet naughty innocuously naïve toddler, he found a new space to display his deficiencies taking advantage of her mutual desire for there unity, in exchange for cheap piqued periods of accessibility to her soul.

The more impatient she became, the more vivid her fantasies grew.
Rough and rapid penetration, gushing bodily fluids, connecting them almost eternally.
Her ardent temperament was a sign of her emotional immaturity.
She deflected on him, she accused him, she hated the reflection of herself in him, and he casually displayed her weaknesses and strengths all at once.
But she adored him; she secretly respected and revered him too much to expose her emotional inferiority to him.
For once she didn’t want help from a man, she was reflective of her past and didn’t want to make a
father figure out of him and refused to allow him to psychologically persuade her to mother him. She wanted them to be the equals they were.
But their moments were minimal, quantitative in ridiculousness and lacking in the quality they expected from each other because of the pedestals they placed themselves on in each other’s eyes.

They let each other down repetitively.

How painful it must have been for each of them to watch their most desired dessert bake slowly through the steamy windows of the ovens they both separately sat in, desperate to pick at the other pie, tongue watering desires of dreamy satisfying consumption.
Cringing at the thought of soggy dough under a layer of toasted golden pastry; glistening with a dusty layer of granulated sugar.

Oh the pain of pleasure.
Oh the pleasure of pain.

Photo: Shutterstock

Obui Amaechi is a Freelance MultiMedia Creative and Consultant. A Design, Music, Gourmet and Wine enthusiast from London, who in her spare time loves a good read and great conversation over dinner. This piece is an excerpt from from a short fictional novel called "Blacks, Browns, Coloureds & Crayolas."