The Affair: Part Three

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Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, days into weeks and weeks into an unexplained void of nothingness inside me; trying to reach out to the healing power of catharsis but nothing to show for it. I attributed the lack of healing to my moral corruption as Immanuel Kant would have it. I remembered his book; the metaphysics of morals, a treatise on the aesthetic preconditions of the minds receptivity to duty, basically a book on how to act good. I thought about reading it again and for a moment re-examine myself and my whole life one more time.

I knew that the only way I would break off from these chains of bondage was if talked to someone about what was really ailing me. But who would I talk to and what was it that was ailing me exactly? The fact that I was sleeping with another man’s wife or that I was on a morality nosedive headed for crash-landing or that my life had become an endless delirious spin off that I did not know how to stop? I really didn’t know, not anymore.

I decided to reach out, not to catharsis. I took out my phone making a mental note that I was forbidden from calling. I made up my mind to send a text.

‘Your car left a nasty oil spill at the garage. I thought it should be checked out but you were in a hurry.’

I wrote out of lack for a better excuse to see her or words to start an appropriate conversation; knowing that she took her cars to the garage mostly on weekends. We never used to talk much, save for when we would be lying naked in bed and when we did, she had always been the one initiating the conversations and never once by a text message. I felt an unrelenting urge to see her which I was not sure whether it was emanating from the void in my soul or the fire in my loins.

‘I will have it checked later today,’ She replied a while later much to my amusement.

The text that followed had a time and an address. I knew what I was supposed to do. Ours was such a relationship if one could even refer it as such; characterized by such codes meaningless to an outsider. I was like a field agent checking in with his handler at an undisclosed location except in this case there was an address. But there had to be an address, right? Otherwise how would the agent know how to locate the ‘CIA BLACKOPS SAFE HOUSE: UNDISCLOSED LOCATION/!’? Those movies always fascinated me and that reminded me of my old friend and colleague Pablo ‘Escobaite’ and our coded 007 bullshit back in the days. I’ll write about him someday.

It was sunset, that beautiful golden hour right before darkness reigns with its demons. I would wait until darkness took reigns to walk into the hotel, not out of instruction but self-preservation if there was anything left to preserve.

She had booked a hotel room for our night together. She lied to her husband about having an overnight office event out of town and arrived at the hotel relatively early. She was eager to give and receive. I thought about him, the husband, probably at some high end joint with old buddies without a doubt that his wife is at an office event, bragging about how he was a stallion in bed or how he had his wife under his thumb. Poor old chap.

As I walked into the lounge, the eyes of a brown-skinned receptionist at the welcome greeted me. I in return gave her a sweet fake smile which deep down I knew was more of a cynical grimace than a smile because at this point and age I had to question the world and its people a lot. I was wearing my favorite black Honda cap just in case there were cameras as I had seen in the movies.

The upscale interior décor was refreshing to the eyes. Various works of art garnished the walls around the lounge. I thought it correct to assume that the rest of the hotel also had such. It was a pleasant sight. I walked straight to the elevator up the second floor all the while practicing my James Bond acquired skills, keeping my head down to avoid the cameras.

The room did not fall short of my expectations. The red sheets on the bed spoke the language of love. It was a calm and convenient cubicle, seemingly the perfect place for a romantic adventure. It remotely reminded me of my ‘bedsitter’. Not that they had anything common  in particular except for the two of us and the art pieces hanging on the wall. While this this was outstanding in décor and furnishing, mine was outstanding for a completely different reason altogether; there were always more condoms in that house than the people at any given time. I chuckled.

‘What’s funny?’

She was seated in front of the mirror looking at me through the reflection.

‘Nothing really, a weird thought just crossed my mind.’ I said sounding empty but also euphoric.

‘Does it involve you ripping these clothes off me, because if it is, then I’m down with it.’ She smiled, that mischievous smile she used to give me whenever she was about to get naughty. She was a pro in the bedroom affairs and I was her apprentice.

A slightly awkward silence ensued as we both summed up each other with our eyes, like two boxers before a fight. I was still standing at the door.

She knew I was an artist: amateur but still an artist and details meant the world to me. All my works of art hung on my wall back at my bedsit. She let me internalize the moment and admire the art. She on the other hand was admiring her own art, me. She never once took her eyes off me, not once. I could see a smile starting to curve on her mouth on her reflection from the corner of my eye, like an artist satisfied with his work. And I knew she was, for I had been a good student, perhaps even becoming better than the teacher. But that was the nature of learning, if a student remained a student forever then the teacher was failing and she wasn’t.

While this was not completely new to us, we were both a little hesitant. Although we had become so close to each other over time, there was no denying that we were still strangers in some mystical way. And we are always strangers to people; you can never truly know someone, can you? I knew every curve and ridge on her body and her mine but that did not cut it. We were okay with never talking much as long as our souls were in harmony. I would sometimes joke that we talked in spirit.

Naturally, I was a guy with great charisma and cockiness that comes with knowing that the world will always feed out of your hand. But around her, I became a whole new version of myself. Calm, sensitive, mature and utterly good with words: like I was in a vortex of strange callings and strange emotions, a world of secrecy with her and the silence between us a mystifying dialect from a different tribe.

I walked up to her. She still did not turn; watching each other’s reflection in silence. Soft soothing music was playing from the sound system. The kind you listen to when doing yoga, her favorite as I had gathered overtime. She had on a blue chiffon dress which I thought was yellow until I asked (I am somewhat colorblind, something she found fascinating and sexy at the same time) unzipped halfway to a point where I could see her bra. Which color was the bra? I didn’t know. All I knew was that it matched her pants as I later came to discover. How did I know her dress was chiffon? I didn’t. I’m an artist and I know that silk makes good canvas, also chiffon is silk. She did not understand how a self-proclaimed artist would be color blind.

She had as much class as she had the looks and money, I thought to myself .Time and again I would look at her and look back on my life and wonder how I got there. Looking back on my broke-ass class-less ex-girlfriends, I ascertained that evolution was real and man had to pick his struggles. Can you imagine being a man who didn’t drink, didn’t have deep pockets and didn’t know how to ‘convince’ a lady to come over or do whatever? That would be downright suicidal and for me, two out of three wasn’t that bad. I had picked my struggles well and now I was reaping what I sow.

I was now standing behind her, my left hand on her exposed shoulder fondling with the strap of her bra. She looked up, her lips a little parted, welcoming at that and her eyes wanting. Like an Israelite in the Arabian desert praying for manna from heaven. I decided to let the manna rain, play god for a moment. I leaned forward and planted my lips on hers supporting my upper body by placing my hands on the backrest of the seat. Our lips locked, our faces at a Yin-yang position, closed our eyes and everything went dark.

To be continued on Monday 29.

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About The Philosopher King

Writer, philosopher, painter and a student of life and politics. Follow on Twitter @cj_njoroge. Instagram @cj_njoroge

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