Are You Coming for the Biscuits?
“Are you coming for the biscuits?”
Her head leaned gracefully on the pillow. come
“You can come with the milk. My thighs feel dry.” She added.
It was noon. I was thinking about the calm weather outside.
She interrupted my thoughts again, “What’s that thing you often do inside me with those fingers?”
I looked at her with boyish precision. And smiled sheepishly at the window. Then while looking outside said,
“It’s called ploughing, honey. You grope your grapes.”
Sighing, “Ploughing….those oxen sure have strong legs.”
“You haven’t met their tongues, have you?”
“Come with the milk. My body feels like something cold and creamy.” She dodged my question as if to signal her impatience. Then resumed, “What’s a male witch called?”
“I’ll ask my mother next time I see her.”
“You’re a human radio, you know?”
“Coz I play music when you turn me on?”
She summoned my senses with her wit that woman. Always. From the first day. Even when we argued. It was her mind that intrigued me most. And of course, her impossible body. Not that it was a model’s by the standards of this broken apartment we call a world. No. It was the way she knew herself. Her energy. Her control. Her endlessness. We had some sort of gravitation. It was befuddling.
She actively listened to my endless stories over flasks of tea. Chuckling and bursting over my naiveties, twists, shamelessness and unschooled britting. Hers were descriptive animated three sixty degrees of a thousand words per thirty seconds accounts of everything connected to everything else from her birthdate. And somehow I caught all of it. She was poetry and static electricity. Could light Kirinyaga with two words.
“You play a lot of music even when you’re not in this world, Queen of Baricho.”
“My father would have liked you.”
She needed me to wet the biscuits resting on her thighs. With the cold milk. And take them from her flesh. That was my starter. She was lunch.
She loved play. Music. Fine art. And kissing my brushy eyebrows.
Fela Kuti’s “Colonial Mentality” was closely followed by Billy Taylor’s “So You Think You’re Cute”. Low tone. It was a fluffy afternoon and the sun was singing its songs. Number after number. Hymn after hymn. Slowly and seductively.
Her back twitched when she turned. We talked. Gripped our locked hands. Like we loved it. There was no getting done. It was always “you were a good meal today, see you next time I’m hungry”. These things take time to build. But with the hurries, fasts and blasts of a headless world, it is rare to find this truth. Lovers have diminished but they exist. They are many and few.
Her talk was fat with commanding bliss. I named it turquoise transcendence. Because turquoise is turquoise.
Her body dripped with sweat an hour and a half later. Our bed had milk, her earthly juices, crashed wet Digestive & Ginger biscuits, and the two of us lost in wonder. Good sex fucks your mind. The world seemed strange. That’s how it felt traveling out of it for such a short time. It’s the thing she taught me about love. We’re more than humans. We don’t have names. Everything that has a name is limited in man’s mind.
Then she said, “Shall I make you more lunch so you can recharge?”
“You’re not tired?” I asked.
She shook her head and left for the kitchen.