“I live on the second floor. Do you want to come up,” she mutters, slightly slurring.
You stifle your excitement and wear a deadpan face; a smokescreen to guise the pulsating euphoria underneath your skin. You want to maintain your cool, even if you risk frosting whilst at it. You don’t want to answer briskly since then you will seem needy, like that’s what you had been longing for and no woman wants a needy man. That will turn her off in a drop of a hat. Women.
You dart at your phone to check the time. Pause. All this while smiling, pretending to simmer her offer in thought. Inside, it’s a shindig, your emotions have broken into a brouhaha.
Of course you want to go up. You want to go up so bad. You want to go up not just the stairs, you want to go up on a lot more, her contours for instance. You hope her words are metaphor for the tangent things would take while you’re in her pad – going up.
“Ama you’ll just come up another day, it’s late anyway,” she goes. Before you answer.
You nod. Half heartedly. Assenting to the searing words. The words of spurned chances. Shit!
“You’re a nice guy,” she adds before walking away. Her skin sashaying into the bowels of the apartment. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air.
You hate that name – nice guy – it is the devil’s mojo. Something it made to smother folks attempts to woo birds it wants to hog to itself. Nice guys want some too, they might go the whole nine yards; take you out. Hold the door for you. Pull the chair. Walk you to your Uber or bus stop. But that doesn’t change a thing.
A bulge forms in your pants.
You walk to your car dishertened, so is the little man.