*
For most of her life, Imani was fuelled by fear. The fear took different shapes; fear of failure, pain, and the fear that one day someone would see behind the façade.
It hadn’t always been there, the dull stagnant fear. It had sprouted for the first time when she was ten years old. She had been with her friends by the playground, or what a playground looked like in a public school with limited funds. It was just a patch of grass with nothing else if they were lucky, they found an abandoned nearly deflated football to play with. It didn’t matter though because children always found ways to entertain themselves. The kinds of games that children could make up were endless, and on that particular day at the request of Vera, they played Wedding. The game went like this.
Two of their classmates would be picked, usually based on their popularity, and then they would all have a mock wedding. They based the ceremony on the severely limited knowledge of what a wedding looked like. It was flowers, walking down the aisle, and a priest. In way of words, none of them could remember what was actually said during the wedding, but everyone knew there was a kiss at the end. This is what most of them looked forward to. At the final moment, they would all curiously and attentively watch as two of their classmates would lean into each other to give each other a quick and often times embarrassing peck on the lips. It never failed to draw various sounds; gasps, giggles and gags.
Normally Imani didn’t take part in the Wedding, choosing to rather play catch with her smaller group of friends. On this day though, at the insistence of her best friend, they all participated. It was a loud, fun, and chaotic event. Finally, Imani watched as Vera and Peter leaned into each other, and heard the giggles of her friends. After they kissed, Imani’s eyes drifted to Claudia, one of the chosen bridesmaids. Imani decided that if she was ever chosen to be a bride, she would want to marry Claudia, to kiss her; after all, she was prettier than everyone else in her class. It was an innocent, and to her, logical thought, but even then, it left behind an uncomfortable feeling.
Then at fourteen, the fear bloomed and settled. After years of silently questioning herself, she finally told her best friend Aya. Imani didn’t complicate it, she simply asked Aya what it meant if she liked girls the way Aya liked boys. In reply, Aya gave her a grave disheartening wake-up call about morality, hell, and where people like her belonged. Then she stopped talking to her.
At the time, Imani had been hurt, ashamed, and angry. She had expected a reaction, but not to lose her friend, and apparently her place in heaven. But as she got older, the anger faded into wary gratefulness because, despite her disapproval, Aya didn’t tell anyone else about their conversation.
By sixteen she had a complex. She was ruled by the desire to be liked and accepted by others. The desire reigned over every part of her life, and partly because of this, she grew to be extremely popular in high school.
As a senior in high school, she got into her first relationship. His name was Mwangi, and she was, according to her friends, soo lucky to have him.
Their relationship lasted two long months, and she regretted it. It wasn’t because he was a bad guy, because he wasn’t, he was smart and surprisingly thoughtful. She regretted it because every second she was with him confirmed what she had always feared. If only Mwangi was a Claudia, a Betty, a She…then maybe…
She grew older and became more and less of herself. She decided to concentrate on the things her father had advised her to focus on, school, job, a husband and family.
With each Sunday mass, each unintended but hurtful word tossed by a family member, a friend, a classmate, a teacher, a stranger, a government official, she grew firm and resolute in her fear. But it was easy to hide. She didn’t understand those who shouted about pride, and freedom. She wanted to point to herself, and say, “See. It’s possible. You don’t have to be so loud, so disruptive. You can be smart, pretty, and successful, and be alright. You can avoid rejection.”
And for the most part, she did successfully manage to put aside that part of her, but occasionally there were disruptions. Sometimes there was a Lynn who smiled at her too nicely or a Linda who grazed a finger on her arm and sent shivers down her spine. They terrified her.
In a way though, the fear kept her in check and made her path clear. She knew what was allowed, and what wasn’t. She grew comfortable with the secret and shame.
She went into teaching and was actually pretty good at it. Despite everything, she had inherited her mother’s generosity, kindness, and patience. Her students loved her, and she fought for them, eager to prepare them for a little of the world that waited for them.
She postponed many things that she shouldn’t have but also accomplished other things she hadn’t expected.
That was the kind of life Imani led.
To summarize it; Imani led a life that wasn’t significantly better or worse than many others.
*
Imani found herself back with Mr. W, and she smiled at him suddenly curious.
“What is the longest time you’ve spoken to someone?”
Mr. W thought for a second, and shrugged, “Years.”
Imani laughed incredulously, “years?!”
Mr. W smiled, “Yes. He had a lot to say, and time was not relevant, so I let him.”
Imani nodded, then braved another question, “Have you ever been scared?”
It felt silly to ask Death something as trivial and as human as fear, but she couldn’t imagine a life lived without fear.
Mr. W gave her a small ancient smile, and asked, “What is…fear?”
Imani started laughing again amused by Mr. W’s confusion, and reassured him, “Got it, you have never been afraid.”
Mr. W gazed at her briefly and shook his head, “I think maybe I have, but it was a very long time ago.”
Imani sobered, there was something sad about the way Mr. W remembered his past.
“I spend most of my life silently afraid of myself,” she murmured with a tinge of shame.
Mr. W noted her hunched shoulders and felt pity.
“But despite that, you did a lot of good. You shaped the minds of future events. I mean you were a teacher, to me, one of the most powerful professions,” Mr. W exclaimed in an attempt to lighten the small human.
Imani had never thought about it like that, because, yes, in that way she had been extremely important. It hadn’t felt like that though, constantly plagued with a sense that she wasn’t sincere, like that she was teaching just to escape from things she couldn’t confront.
But the more she thought about it, she realized that she had genuinely enjoyed teaching. As a teacher, she had been a different person, confident, brave and sure of herself, things that faded when she left the classroom.
Imani brightened up. She lifted her cup to her mouth and realized that her Uji was done. She wondered if it was polite to ask for thirds if it was even allowed. She didn’t really understand the rules. Before she could speak up Mr.W clapped his hands.
“So where are you stuck?”
Imani thought about it.
It had been a cloudy day. The sky had been threatening rain the whole day, but rain never came.
*
Imani had never done this before, day drinking at a bar. It felt strange being at a bar in the late afternoon, while the sun was still bright, but it had been that kind of day. She hadn’t even changed out of her blue satin blouse. She hated the blouse. She felt the sweat from her armpit, her back, and her stomach cling to the satin material. The bar didn’t have a mirror but she could guess how she looked like. She definitely wasn’t going to score any hot dates, not that she was looking for any. She was there, on a Tuesday afternoon, to drink. Her plan was to drink as many cocktails as it took to forget the cluster-fuck meeting that had taken place in the morning. Then when she was good and drunk, her sorrows forgotten momentarily, she would order an Uber, then go to sleep. Then face herself again the following morning.
“Sangria please… with a straw,” she finally decided, choosing the only drink on the strangely sexual drinks menu that was familiar to her. Also, when had these alcoholic juices gotten so expensive?
The bartender, a tall skinny brown man nodded, and nearly snatched the menu out of her hand. She scoffed, hot girls with nice clothes who didn’t look like grandmothers from the sixties probably got a better treatment. They probably even got flirty conversations.
She heard laughter behind her but didn’t turn. The secret of being a loner at the bar was to not look anywhere but your phone, at the bottles displayed behind the bar, or at the table itself. Making eye contact with others came with potential consequences that ranged from pity smiles to unwanted conversations. She wasn’t in the mood for either.
She reached for her phone. No calls or messages.
She had shit friends, there was not a single inquiry about how her presentation had gone.
The only new message was from her father, and it was a quote. Typical. It was red, on top of one of the ugliest background images she had ever seen. The background was an overstretched image of two white hands palm up, holding up a badly photoshopped stack of dollars. Then on top of that were the words:
“Another day, another dollar”
Imani sighed and threw her phone back into her bag, and wished misfortune to whoever kept forwarding the stupid messages to her dad.
She decided to simply daydream. There were many things to imagine and re-imagine.
“Sangria,” the bartender announced, placing the drink in front of her, and interrupting her imagination.
“Thank you,” she replied automatically, eyes glued to the tall deep red sultry drink.
She looked over to offer a smile but the bartender had already moved on.
She shrugged and sipped the cherry red liquid, eyes closed.
It was good, she smiled happily. Day drinking wasn’t too bad.
“Cheers!” She muttered to herself and went back to her sangria.
By the time she was on her second drink, she was more settled into herself. The afternoon had lost its heat, cooling to meet the evening.
She was swaying, humming quietly to the song that was playing in the background.
Bruno Mars. Treasure.
“That good?” a voice commented next to her.
She opened eyes lazily, eyes that she had forgotten she had closed. The world shone a little too brightly and buzzed pleasantly.
She looked next to her to the voice.
It was a woman. She also had a cocktail in front of her, but hers was a Pina colada from the looks of it.
She had bright red full lips and dark brown skin. She also had extremely long black large braids that might have reached her waist. Imani couldn’t tilt back to check. Braids said a lot about a girl. She had always believed that confident girls were the only ones who could pull off Rapunzel-length braids.
Imani decided that she liked the woman’s outfit, she especially loved the leather jacket.
There was something else about her that she couldn’t place but that made her slightly uncomfortable.
“I like your blouse,” the woman added teasingly unconcerned by Imani’s lack of response and staring. She was probably used to it. She looked like she was coming from a photo shoot.
Imani cleared her throat embarrassed, “Yes.”
The woman raised her eyebrow amused, and replied back, “yes.”
They gazed at each other for a brief moment. Imani feeling particularly dumbstruck and silly started to giggle.
“Yes.” She added that she couldn’t help it. Curse the Sangria.
Then the woman smiled. And she realized what had been so uncomfortable about the woman.
She wasn’t just fashionable, she was absolutely stunning.
She blinked slowly and had to confess.
“You are very pretty,” she blurted, pushing past the dull fear. She wished she could pull off the woman’s entire look.
The woman’s smile flattered, and Imani suddenly felt self-conscious. It was okay, right? To call other women beautiful. There was nothing too weird about that, right?
“Thank you,” the voice said interrupting her inner panicked dialogue. The voice was also much closer than before.
Imani was startled and looked up from her drink to find the woman now sitting on the barstool next to hers. The woman smelled like what Imani imagined rich celebrities smelled like.
Otherworldly.
“My name is Afia, you?” the woman inquired with a friendly smile.
Imani tried and found her voice, “Imani, but you can call me Ima.”
Afia smiled again, and nodded towards Imani’s sangria, “drinking away your sorrows like me?”
Imani cracked a smile, feeling less self-conscious, “You know it.”
Afia threw an apologetic smile, and nodded at the back of the rude bartender.
“Normally, I would let you drink alone, but the bartender has been trying to hit on me for a while, and I need some sort of shield.” Afia hesitated, “But I can go back to my seat if you want.”
It was true that Imani had come to the bar with the intention of being left alone, but Afia was nice, and she smelled heavenly. Her voice was also soothing and did weird things to her heart, like speed it and slow it down. Also, Imani knew the pain of unwanted advances.
Imani frowned, “he’s been hitting on you!? He hasn’t even looked at me in the eye once.”
Afia blinked at Imani’s shocked and offended face and broke into a laugh. It filled the room and drowned Bruno Mars.
“It’s probably the sweaty blouse and messy hair,” Imani confessed light-heartedly, shaking her head in resigned disbelief. She imagined that her carefully fluffed afro was now doing its own dry little dance. It was science, 4C and heat equalled terror.
Imani was too tipsy to care much about the judgement. She was a teacher, she was used to the critical look of her students, and those rascals could be downright cruel.
Afia’s eyes traced her black hair, her sweaty face, and down to her blouse.
Afia satisfied, nodded, and winked at Imani.
“You remind me of a forest creature. Like you’ve been out there fighting for the right of trees and whatnot. A noble cause.”
Imani nearly spat out her drink with laughter. And from that point, it was easy, as easy as breathing air.
*
“Are you all seeing?” Imani asked suddenly interested in the extent of Mr. W’s power.
Where did he start and end?
Mr. W stretched his skinny arms wide, baring himself, “I am all you see.”
Imani rolled his eyes and scoffed, “That doesn’t answer my question. Are all deities so elusive?”
Mr. W barked with laughter and shook his head, “We are not deities.”
Imani regarded his scepticism, “So what are you?”
Mr. W shrugged, “It’s a bit complicated, but we are choices, time and stories.”
Elusive.
The answer didn’t tell her anything, except…
“So you are powerful?”
Mr. W smiled, “Yes, that we are.”
Imani sighed sadly and confessed again, “Choices. I’ve never liked those.”
Mr. W's eyes twinkled, “I know.”
“It’s like unexpectedly finding yourself in an orgy,” Imani divulged, not sure how else to politely describe the complexities of choice.
Imani just didn’t like how choices made up every part of life, not just hers, but others, eventually intersecting even strangers across time. It was messy.
Mr. W frowned at her, confused, “but orgies can also be very fun.”
Imani opened her mouth to ask how he knew but decided not to pursue that conversation.
Mr.W added, “The universe is vast and so interconnected that there is no way to measure the importance and impact of every action.”
Imani was enchanted, she couldn’t imagine being able to see the universe at that scale.
“How much of the universe can you see? Actually no. no. I can’t believe I haven’t asked yet! Is God real, is God a woman?”
Mr. W gave her a withering look, and changed the subject, “Where are you stuck?”
Before she could protest, she was back.
Outside the bar and beneath the stars.
*
“Then, of course, he started explaining things like I didn’t know my job like god forbid that a woman teacher actually knows how the world of education works.”
Afia stood hands in her jeans, looking at an increasingly agitated Imani. Imani was an animated angry person, her whole body vibrated whenever she was agitated, and her hands flayed in exasperation.
“Mansplaining?” Afia suggested, amused at Imani’s restless movements.
Imani halted, slightly taken aback.
Afia gave her an embarrassed smile. “No?”
“No…I mean yes! That’s the word, mansplaining,” Imani exclaimed happily, words slurring slightly, and leaning forward like she was about to tip over.
Afia stifled a laugh and stepped closer, afraid that her new friend would fall over. Her shoulder brushed Imani’s and Afia felt unexpectedly giddy.
Afia was self-aware enough to know that it wasn’t just the Pina Colada making her feel this charmed. But, Afia was also smart enough to know that the world was never that simple, especially for people like her. For people like her, moments like this came and passed, fearful of consequences.
Afia hummed in thought and Imani who had also gotten quiet side-eyed her. Afia could distinctly feel Imani’s eyes on her.
The night was cool but it didn’t do anything for her thrashing heart. She couldn’t even remember how they had decided to leave the warm indoors of the bar and come outside.
Ah yes.
The bartender.
They had been outside for quite a while now. The moon was high in the sky, and she was no longer sure of what they were doing.
Afia thought about saying goodbye and going home but she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less.
Talking to Imani was…she didn’t know. It felt like time passed slowly then all at once; or that it didn’t exist.
Her plan was to wait until Imani decided to go home; she also had an early morning the next day.
“It feels nice, the cool air,” Imani remarked in the quiet.
Afia nodded in agreement feeling uncomfortable. She felt like gravity was pushing her, pressuring her. Finally, she succumbed.
“Hey,” Afia called out quietly, nearly dizzying out from nervousness.
“Yeah,” Imani replied softly, her voice sounding uneven.
“What should we do?” Afia asked next to her.
The question branched itself into a billion choices.
What should they do? There were many things they could do.
They could exchange numbers, hug, and go home, maybe meet up again, or lose touch.
They could take the night, go out to another bar, club, dance, drink some more and lose themselves to the beat of Nigerian music.
They could stand there and continue talking, taking in the air around them until it started getting far too dark and their legs far too tired.
They could even go back to the bar, properly tell off the bartender, and leave with a funny story.
They could do-
*
“This part,” Imani professed. Then she added to clarify, “This is where I am stuck.”
She blinked, “I didn’t realize I could retell things from her perspective.”
Mr. W shrugged, “It’s not just your story, in the end, it’s both of yours. But you are right, why not write that part in your perspective?”
Imani didn’t know why but she felt like she couldn’t, that it wouldn’t be okay.
Mr. W gave her a knowing look, “I don’t think you are stuck, I think you just don’t want to write the choice you made.”
Imani blinked stupidly, not wanting to accept it, but it was true.
Mr. W spoke in the silence, “You are not stuck because you aren’t making anything up.
You are just retelling events that have passed. So how can you be stuck?”
Imani let out a loud miserable groan and hid her face hidden behind her hands. It was so stupid. So embarrassing. Then to her horror, she felt herself start to tear up.
“I’m so stupid. I’ve spent this long because I can’t accept this ONE instance?”
Mr. W had no comforting words to offer. Human emotions were strange, one moment he thought he had a handle on them, and the next, they were crying.
Oh.
Imani lifted her hands from her face, and he saw that she was crying earnestly. He sat frozen, no matter how many times it happened, he never really knew the best way to react. This time, he decided to just wait.
Imani sniffed, tears falling, at least she wasn’t sobbing.
“I don’t know. I’ve had years to come to terms with many things, but not this, not this one night. It always feels like a failure,” Imani grumbled to herself, wiping away her tears, and frowning angrily at her empty Uji cup. Mr. W didn’t move to console her, he continued to look at her, his eyes giving away nothing.
“I am not here to judge your character, or your choices Imani.” He replied in reassurance.
Imani sniffed feeling irritated and slightly disappointed, and snapped, “Then why are you here?!”
Mr. W gave her the same patient look she would sometimes give her stubborn students, and Imani felt even more like little shit.
Mr. W's eyes twinkled again and he gave her a small human smile, “I am here first to share Uji with you.”
Imani felt her mouth tug with a smile but crossed her arms trying to keep it at bay. She replied with an air of haughtiness, “It’s not that good, not like my mother’s.”
Mr. W's eyes widened at the mere suggestion, “Not even I have the power to make your mother’s uji.”
Imani snorted with laughter and sighed guilty, “Sorry for the outburst. I am just frustrated with myself. It feels like I lived half a life.”
Mr.W laughed, amused by Imani’s fluctuating emotions.
“You really took that independent black woman seminar seriously, didn’t you? You don’t even have to rely on others to judge you, you just judge yourself.”
Imani let out a loud laugh and shrugged grinning. “Yes, I give my life a C+, and that is being generous.”
Mr. W smiled amusement shifting into fondness. Humans were better when they brimmed with joy. Mr. W tapped his mouth in absent thought, and replied, “I don’t know. I would give you a B.”
Imani looked at him reproachfully, “You are being too generous.”
Mr. W’s fond smile didn’t falter, and he kept his gaze on her until she started to feel like a small child under the scrutiny of their mother.
He added casually, “Oh I don’t know. Yes, you let fear stop you from living your truthfully. But, you also lived in a world that constantly rejected you as a woman, as a black woman, as a gay black woman, and as a smart gay black woman. And yet, you continued to try and preserve. You tried your best, and throughout all that, you tried to teach others to be braver and kinder. So, a B sounds okay”
Imani felt torn between smiling and sobbing, but she settled on a smile. She felt at peace all of a sudden. All her life, she had wanted someone to tell her that she had done alright. That it hadn’t been great, but that she had tried. She had wanted that from her mother, or her father even, or anyone else, but no one had looked at her close enough. Ironically, despite her constant fear of being discovered, no one had ever come close enough to release her.
It was wonderful, being told just once but genuinely, that she was alright, that she was a little bit enough.
It also dawned on her why she couldn’t finish the chapter. She knew with her whole being without knowing how that it could have been Afia. Afia could have done it, peeled off the layers and freed her.
Not wanting to cry again, Imani concentrated on raising her grades.
“How about a B+, so it spells out black excellence?” Imani teased an attempt to bargain.
Mr. W chuckled, “Give them an inch. I would go higher, I would even give you an A, if you hadn’t walked away from Afia.”
Imani grimaced.
Ouch.
Imani gazed at the ageless entity and tried to make it understand. “I was afraid. So afraid. I already had so much stacked against me. It felt foolish, to suddenly risk so much of my future on someone, no matter how good I felt. I thought it was being wise.”
The entity nodded slowly and understood that it still didn’t fully understand what it meant to be human.
Then gently it started to shift back into Mr. W, and Mr.W asked curiously, “Are you still afraid to finish the story?”
Imani thought about it and realized that, no, she wasn’t, not anymore. Because now she was sure that she was strong enough, that her heart was big enough to absorb the good, the bad, the what-ifs, the regrets, and just enjoy a sangria.
“No. I am okay. But a part of me still wishes I could have been a little more than what was allowed,” Imani confessed thoughtfully.
Mr. W leaned back, closed his eyes, and stared up at the galaxy behind his eyelids. The room lapsed into another momentary silence, and then he opened his eyes and looked across to her.
“I liked Afia too. I think you two could’ve crushed your enemies.”
Imani smiled despite herself, infected by Mr. W's wistfulness, “you think? Don’t you know?”
Mr. W scoffed, almost offended by the question. “Oh of course I know. And I can tell you that the universe needs lives like yours to connect and love, the power of it gives birth to solar flares, to bright stars.”
Imani chuckled feeling teary once again. “You are a poet now.”
Mr. W nodded smugly and explained, “Audre Lorde. She taught me a little poetry.”
Imani giggled, Mr. W looked less like a godlike entity and more like a love-struck fan.
Suddenly, Mr. W's expression shifted into seriousness, and he regarded her.
“So you are okay to finish the story?”
Imani nodded, “Yes. I can finish. This part sucked, but overall, the story wasn’t too bad.”
Imani took a moment to think about Afia again. It hadn’t been cruel, the way she had turned her down, it had been justified, and under the hurt, she had almost seen understanding in Afia’s eyes. Over time she had forgotten her, but she never went back to the bar.
Her life moved on, occupied by strategies to navigate life. At times Afia popped up in her mind but it was never long, or painful. Which is why she hadn’t expected Afia to play such a central part at the end. She hadn’t realized how big of a scar Afia and that night had left. Afia was symbolic in a way; that even in her afterlife, she still struggled to accept herself. She thought about coming out to Mr.W, but this wasn’t about him. It was about her, and she understood that now.
She was alright. No better or worse than many others.
Mr. W watched her, proud. The transformation had been subtle, but now he could truly see Imani, who she was. And she was wonderful.
Mr. W smile, bathing in the calm atmosphere, “Good.” This was his favourite part.
Imani looked across to him as well, and chuckled, “I should get my notebook, talk and write at the same time.”
Mr. W didn’t reply right away, looking like he was contemplating something important. Suddenly he slapped his hands on the table, startling both Imani and the uji.
Mr. W announced eagerly, “You are a great writer right!? I was actually hoping you would tell me something new instead.”
Imani stared at him for an eternity and gaped astonished. She spluttered in reply, “I can’t just change the story into whatever I want!”
Mr.W grinned, then winked conspiratorially, “You can change it for now, for me, just so I can see your storytelling skills, then after…write what actually happened.”
Imani had many questions, but instead, she grinned shyly and gestured at her empty cup,
“I wasn’t sure about how to ask for thirds.”
Mr. W chuckled. He reached out to squish her cheeks and peered into her eyes.
“You have nice brown eyes.”
Imani grinned. They drank uji, Imani asked questions, and Mr. W barely answered them.
Eventually, though, she was back.
She stood in front of a million choices.
*
-so many things, Imani thought to herself, shivering slightly. It was a cold evening.
They could go to grab late-night chips and talk more about their lives.
They could hug, and hold on to each other for a little too long.
But there was a difference between what they could do, and what they needed to do.
What they needed to do was exchange a few words, and go their separate ways. That was the choice that made the most sense. Imani barely knew Afia, and they both had an early next morning anyway.
“I think we should call it a night, it was fun, but I didn’t plan to stay up too late,” Imani confessed kindly, ears ringing, and stomach-turning unpleasantly.
Afia looked hurt and disappointed but she smiled with a resigned understanding. It was almost like she had been expecting it. “Yeah, you are right. I have a busy day tomorrow too. We are catering that wedding I was talking to you about.”
Imani nodded, they had talked about it. They had even joked about Afia inviting her, and both of them showing up with tacky ugly dresses.
Afia looked into her eyes like she was trying to memorize their colour. Imani felt an urge to tell her that they were brown, but her ears were ringing too loudly.
Then Afia stretched her hand amicably, “Well it was awesome hanging with you. Sorry again about that presentation.”
Imani looked down at Afia’s outstretched hand, it was attached to a rather nice-looking arm, which was in turn attached to a rather nice person. Imani’s gaze shifted to Afia’s waist, and she realized that, yes, Afia’s braids were long. Definitely down to her waist. Afia was confident, and she made her laugh. She also made Imani want to stand in the cold just to speak to her longer.
The ringing faded, and suddenly, Imani had a thought. It was wild, it was reckless, and it was absolutely bat-shit insane.
“Or…” she started, hesitating briefly before looking squarely into Afia’s eyes, they were brown like hers, and she loved them.
“Or…we could kiss?” Imani finally said in suggestion.
The words, although calmly said, pulled themselves from her being, and left her feeling lifeless. She refused to look up and only looked up when the Afia’s outstretched hand disappeared from her view. Afia was grinning, her whole face doing a dance.
“Ohwa there Mr. Bond,” Afia exclaimed in reply stepping closer into Imani’s space.
Imani groaned, quickly turning into a mortified thirteen-year-old, and briefly wanting to be swallowed by a black hole.
She brushed past the gnawing fear and continued because she felt like it was very very important. She added, feeling more certain, “Yes. We should kiss, passionately, in fact.”
Afia was just inches away from Imani now teasing Imani with her warmth.
“And then?” Afia asked sounding uncertain.
Imani closed the space between them, seeking out warmth and comfort. She wrapped her arms around Afia’s waist and pressed her close.
Imani squeaked, turning into a puddle as she felt Afia’s arm wrap around her neck and draw their forehead together.
But she managed to answer her, “Then I can take a day off tomorrow and go to that awful wedding with you.”
Afia laughed breathlessly, “And then?”
The space around them was so warm and so charged, it electrified Imani. She felt tears start to collect themselves behind her closed eyes. Just this once, she wanted to BE. She wanted both of them to just…
“Then we could live,” Imani said affectionately.
Afia squished Imani’s cheeks, overflowing with adoration and nervousness. Imani felt a familiarity there. Afia felt it too, the familiarity. There was a memory there, a past craving she had had, a want, a chance, and never being able to write it down, but it felt distant, like the life of someone else.
Afia asked quietly, her voice full of wonder. “Live?”
Imani nodded, fear finally conquered by the desire to give herself a chance. Give them a chance to be more than they were supposed to be.
“Yes. I promise.”
Seconds, minutes, centuries and millennia passed, but when Afia finally kissed Imani, it anchored them.
*
Back in a moment in time, Mr. W looked at the empty space Imani had occupied, and stretched his long arms in relief. He quietly packed away his cups and thermos and placed them in the abyss of his robe.
He shook his head.
They were such complicated little things. Weird, complicated things that sometimes deserved a second chance.
They were powerful too; capable of bending entities like him to their needs.
Gods in their own right.
Mr. W turned; broke into a smile, and slowly started shifting into absoluteness.
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