Everything that you’ll read here is absolutely true. Only names have been changed for their — well, let me put it this way: he’s not yet ready for the world to know about us.
I have to start by saying he’s super hot. Tall, dark, sculpted barely-shaved beard. Brown eyes. Lips I’d like to kiss. Quick wit too. And flirty. That took a while to sink in. I am, after all, a bit rusty.
You see, I recently found myself single after a long term relationship that lasted six years. I am not quite sure what went wrong. It still hurts, no less because I had thought he was my forever. Shocker, right?
What I am saying is, I’ve been out of the game for donkey years, so I don’t recognize the signals as quickly as I used to.
Anyway, back to Arnold (not his real name — I’m horny, not stupid).
We meet at a high-end tech shop in Bali, Douala. I’ve come in for a software fix on some merchandise I just purchased. Arnold is in conversation with my contact, so I wait politely a step back. It’s taking more than a minute so I let my eyes wander. On him. It’s a pretty sight, so I linger for a few seconds. I find the shape of his lips intriguing.
I can see the trace of his biceps through the fabric of his grey t-shirt. My eyes follow to his abs, and, I am a little ashamed to say, his butt, tucked nicely into a pair of blue denim pants. Haba, haba.
But, as this is isn’t hunting season, I don’t give it a second thought. I’m starting to be a little impatient too. It’s been a long, long, hot day at the office. I’m sweaty, my curls have caught frizz, my sleeveless, flowery black blouse is untucked from my black pants and I’m wearing slippers for the sure-to-be long drive home. Like I said, not hunting season.
As if reading my mind, the tech guy says hi, apologizes for the delay, and asks for a few more minutes. I’m like “sure”, but I really wish he’d attend to me.
That’s when Arnold looks at me — a fraction of a second longer than mere politeness, and says,
“We still have much to discuss Gerard. I don’t mind waiting.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit guilty, but my tiredness overrides any thoughts of declining the offer. After I explain the problem, Gerard of the Tech Shop takes a look at the device in my hand, punches a few keys and says I’ll have to come back for it within the week.
I groan as he leaves to log it in the machine.
“Technology eh? I wonder how people survived the 90s,” says Arnold, sheepishly holding up two phones and shaking his left wrist with a sleek smart watch on it.
“We survived by playing dodging and tabala,” I reply.
“I don’t even know what those words mean,” he says, and we both laugh.
Then follows a back-and-forth about old tools and new tech, shifting to other things and before I know it, I realise there’s something else beneath the chatter. Then he says,
“You smile so easily. I like it.”
“Huh. I did think there was an undercurrent to all this, but you’d have to forgive me, I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“What?”
“Flirted so shamelessly, and with someone as fine as you,” I say, and I can feel my lips curl into my sexy smile. Okay, I’m working it alright.
He laughs.
“I’m curious, though I’m not sure I should ask,” he says.
“I’m feeling particularly generous tonight, so you can ask me five questions and I’ll give you straight answers. Ask me anything.”
“Are you married?”
“Lol. Too easy, no.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
In my chest, I feel a sharp pain I don’t immediately recognize. There’s a slight pause before I answer.
“No.”
Then it hits me. It’s the first time I’ve answered no to this question in six years.
“Are you looking for fun or commitment?”
There’s a wicked smile on my face now.
“You are finally getting to the good stuff. I was beginning to worry you’d be boring.”
A crooked smile breaks across his face and I find that I quite like it. He cocks his head to one side.
“Fun,” I say.
And why not, I ask myself. I could mourn, bitch and moan about my lost love. Still won’t change a damn thing. It dawns on me that I am on the wrong side of my 30s, unwillingly thrust back into the dating game. But, like Jean Rasczak said in Starship Troopers, never pass up a good thing.
“Will you give me you number?”
“You need only ask. And I won’t count it as one of the five.”
“May I have your number?”
I unlock my phone and hand it to him instead. He puts in his phone number and his name.
“Arnold,” I read out loud when he hands it back to me. “I will text you in a bit. You have one last question before I ask my own five.”
He laughs.
“I’d prefer to ask you over lunch.”
“Cute and smart,” I say, nodding in exaggerated appreciation.
Gerard of the Tech Shop decides to make an appearance now. He hands me a piece of paper and tells me to come back in two days.
I turn to Arnold, shake his hand and say,
“Nice to meet you Arnold. Let’s chat.”
I can feel his eyes boring into my back. I’m suddenly in good spirits.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he calls after me.
A huge grin transform my smile, before I spin around with some flair.
“Sowie,” I shout back, ignoring the stares from one or two clients in the shop.
Crossing the bridge to Bonaberi in my silver 2008 RAV4 is particularly long but eventually I maneuver the sandy, muddy potholes filled with stagnant rain waters that lead to the quaint bungalow I’ve called home for the last two years.
Quick shower. Even quicker dinner of microwaved leftover eru. Soon I’m in my faded yellow night shirt and in bed, phone in hand.
His photo on the green app is a little grainy but even pixelated he’s freaking hot.
I open with “your dp is so not worthy of you. You should fix that.”
Two blue ticks almost immediately, and then, typing. I shut the phone quickly and throw it on the bed.
Ding!
I count to sixty. Twice. Then pick up the phone.
“Huh. Really?”
“My turn. Are you in a relationship?” I type.
“No”.
“How old are you?”
Blue ticks. Typing. Online. Typing.
“27.”
Fuck. That young?
“How old are you?”
I pause, put in 36, delete and type “guess.”
“26.”
I laugh out loud.
“Flattery will get you everywhere. You are on the right path.”
“You look 28.”
“Earning yourself some nice brownie points.”
“Brownie points??”
I send him a screenshot of a definition of brownie points from Google.
“Ohhh this is sad,” comes the reply.
“Why?”
“An imaginary point.”
“Did you need real points?”
“No one needs imaginary things.”
That gets me in my sweet spot.
“Meet me for lunch. Friday.”
I pause for a bit.
“Okay.”
I tell him I have an early day tomorrow. He says good night.
27. Almost an entire 10 years younger. A decade. I flush with pleasure. I wasn’t even trying, is what gets me. It feels good to be desired. I decide right there to see this through. Then I google cougar.
The second definition has me cackling.
An older woman seeking a sexual relationship with a younger man.
Well, what do you know? I just became a cougar.
Continues here.
Sowan Writes 