the mother of my children revisited

The mother of my children grows lovelier with each passing day. I can no longer find words to sing her praises or justify my obsession, but in truth I am not really trying. It is enough that every other day, I get to experience the tranquility that comes from gazing at her, and the subsequent despair that accompanies the realization that she may never be mine. But what is life without hope?

I asked her out Tuesday morning, the mother of my children. Until recently, I had existed only at the periphery of her vision; skirting repeatedly around the edges of recognition but just far enough to fall into the category of stranger. But that morning, the air buzzed with promise. Having tottered into class thirty minutes late, she was forced to take the only available seat within sight- the one next to mine. My attention flew out the window instantly.

That morning, the epitome of perfection had chosen to dress (or not dress) herself in the skimpiest skirt this side of the solar system and a similarly unrated blouse that revealed more than it concealed. Judging from the appreciative stares that escorted her to her seat, no one was complaining. The lecturer took a moment to throw her the filthiest look she could manage, muttered something about insolence, and then her voice slipped back into the lifeless, monotonous drone that she reserved for dictating notes. That was the last thing I heard from her. As soon as mama watoto slipped into the seat beside me, everything else in the room receded into blurred insignificance. I could not have said which of my hands was the right one.

My best half has no interest in academic endeavors-none whatsoever. As soon as the loving attention shifted from her, she extracted her phone from one of the pouches in the mini bag that was inside a small bag which was on the first floor of her handbag. What I had once mistaken for an iphone was in fact a hitherto unknown product, named ‘Bird’ for some reason. She logged onto Facebook and was soon chatting with someone named ‘D!valixxious M$weete$t’. Meanwhile, she had also fished from the depths of her bag a pocket version of her dressing table, and every other minute, she added another layer to the powdered spots on her cheeks, or made silent ‘p’ sounds while inspecting her lips in the mirror. I wondered why she had bothered to attend the class.

All the while, I watched her, my eyes trailing her every move with worshipful fascination. And then a fit of fancy swept me up, and I asked her out.

The mother of my children belongs to the dramatic society. When the devil took my tongue and warped it into the words, “Please go out with me”, she responded with an award winning performance. She took a quick, unnecessary gulp of air, and then the hand drawn lines that were her eyebrows shot into the air. She raised a perfectly manicured hand and held it over her heart- represented, of course, by generous cleavage. And then she turned, slowly, deliberately, dramatically, and regarded me with unseeing eyes. “What?!” she gushed, eyes narrowed to slits. Was that outrage or something else? It did not matter, I decided. So I ploughed on, my heart pounding deafeningly in my ears.

“I apologize for the outburst. Yes, I would love nothing more than to go out with you. I have dreamed of it since the moment I first saw you. I have made and unmade plans to approach you, each time being elevated to the heavens by the unadulterated beauty that you exude with so much ease, and then brought sharply back to earth by the realization that I can never have you. I know the impossibility of yearning, yet it only fuels the flames of my passion. So I ask only this. Would you consider an offer of friendship? If, at a later date, you see the need to redefine the parameters of this friendship, I would consider it the happiest moment in my life. If not, then I will declare myself the luckiest man alive to simply call you my friend. May I call you my friend?”

She did not respond. Instead, she threw her belongings back into her bag. Then she grabbed my hand, and we dashed from the lecture hall amidst a wave of giggles and wolf whistles. I was too stunned to speak, so I focused instead on maintaining my balance as I was dragged along. The woman was in spiked heels, yet she still managed to outpace me completely. Then again, it was very distracting watching the bobbing motion of her derriere…

We stopped suddenly, and now the mother of my children was pushing me into a room. I had the briefest of seconds to recognize it as a bathroom, before all thoughts were wiped from my mind as she pinned me against a wall. And then she was kissing me. For what may have been an eternity, my lips danced languorously on hers; they nibbled when hers did, they parted when hers parted, and they yielded against the gentle pressure of hers. The world around us dissolved, all sensations outside of our embrace receded and vanished, until there was only us; until all I was aware of was the hand that was ruffling her hair and the firm breasts that were mashed against my chest. And still, we kissed, wrestling each other in a fit of passion, lost in a timeless moment…

My return to reality was abrupt and unpleasant. Someone stomped sharply on my foot, and the dream melted away before my very eyes. I was in class, and not in a non-descript bathroom. My mouth was hanging open, not molded against an exquisite pair of lips. And instead of the quiet, jealous observation of four walls, I was being stared at by every single person in the room.

I have now lost face completely in the eyes of my beloved. I can already picture her telling the children that once upon a time, their father got called out for daydreaming in class. Every ounce of self respect I possessed has been crushed underfoot, and it would seem my proposal must be delayed even further- at least until she can look at me without lapsing into a fit of giggles.

The mother of my children is still a testimony in perfection. She is, now more than ever, a sizzling flame, and when she kisses, she does so with passionate abandon. At least I think so. But despite the burgeoning blossoms of doubt in my heart, I know she will be mine. Perhaps on the day the oceans run dry

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