Ije’s text says she’s here. I’m glad she hasn’t really missed anything. I’m not even sure if any of this is her style, anyway. I’m still surprised she asked to come. I think I added too many emojis when I posted the flier, and now she thinks it’s a whole party.
I get off the mat and attempt a beeline for the door. I fail, as I have to tilt toward either side at least twice. I mutter a couple of ‘sorry’s and ‘excuse me’s, though I doubt I am heard by any of the people I say them to.
I get to the open door and head out, stopping right at the top of the stairs as I look below. I see her. She sees me.
She’s looking at me, taking her time coming up the stairs, and she’s … looking at me. I almost want to go meet her halfway. I wait where I am, though, shuffling on the spot but looking right back at her.
It’s these shorts. They’re too hot. I like them — and wanted to wear them — because they show off a considerable portion of my thighs but are tight enough to keep my ass right where it belongs: inside. The shorts have little triangles cut at the back of the waistline, showing a little of my back too. Yet, no one’s said they like how I look. Naturally, I’m feeling their condemning eyes on me. That’s the only other thing people do when they see something so daring.
I don’t lose my vision to the ongoing dissociation; I notice Ije is wearing shorts that stop right where her thighs become her knees. She gets the shorts agenda. Maybe Ije will say something about how I look?
I like her top, too. I didn’t even know there were spaghetti strap tops that didn’t look like they should be worn around the house.
As soon as she’s close enough, she — surprisingly — pulls me into a hug. It happens so fast, I hold my breath. She smells familiar. I take a longer, deeper breath. I’m in an open field and it’s cloudy and grey and drizzling, like those quiet moments between passing storms. I relish the atmosphere. It’s my absolute favourite weather and the best possible place to be in that weather. The only part of my experience I can’t reconcile – the part that lets me know this isn’t really my happy place – is a certain scent in the air. Human. Her. There’s usually no one else around every time I find my way to this place. And she’s brought me here in one fell swoop. A catalyst of this momentary — albeit incidental — zero-effort experience of my happy place.
I’m too engrossed to know why, but we stumble, and my face is no longer buried in the cranny of her neck and hair. All I can breathe now is a perfume that I recognise somewhere in the back of my brain.
I’ll probably never get another chance to hug her for as long as that. Somehow that thought scares me.
She felt like limbo.
Now that she’s right in front of me, I can see she’s shimmering. Her ebony has quite the thorough glow, yes. But there’s something else. Glitter? No doubt some kind of make-up. Ije’s irradiation clearly requires a lot of effort. It certainly is … arousing.