Prose

Love and other drugs

He didn’t understand her. He was beginning to think he never really did because time and time again she mentioned that word,even after the stern warning he gave her to never say it aloud. It’s not that he didn’t like the word or that he wont have liked to know what it  meant in the real sense of it, the knowledge that could only come from experiencing, feeling, living. But she didn’t stop.
As he lay on the bed staring at and yearning to touch the mole on her back, the one he couldn’t get to touch last night with the frenzied way they had lunged at each other, the image of her burrowed brows as she focused on keeping her balance while he thrust into her flashed through his mind but even that, as delicious and arousing as it was to see was not enough to erase the memory of what she had said, of that word.
You see, he had been at his house cooking when she came in with a mattress which he recognized to be hers but before he could ask what was going on, she told him that of Henry, the guy with the silver Mercedes that had been on her case and that he had bought her a new mattress, a TV, an air conditioner, basically everything he thought she needed and she decided to bring the old one to him seeing as he deserved it more than Nkechi the neighbourhood gossip. So they argued. He was mad enough to hither but not weak enough to follow through and that was when she said it again for the first time that day “why are you so angry, he has MONEY and it’s not like I’m sleeping with him?” He swallowed his anger.
He loved her. He fucked her on the mattress Henry said was not good enough for her.

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