What we dream about when we dream about love

                          

                                                                             I

We live in a glass house. We can see the world outside and to its voyeuristic delight, the world outside can see us too. It is evening in June and the clouds start to gather. I stand by the glass walls, goblet of red wine in hand, looking at the driveway through the window. Heavy drops of rain pelt down. A peal of thunder. Flashes of lightning. The rustling of trees. They drown out John Legend caroling thirstily for love lost. Then your car pulls in, headlamps cutting through the deluge. You scan the downpour for a moment before you brave it and come through the door, laptop bag slung over your shoulder, trailing a pool behind you. I divest your sodden clothes and spread a warm towel over your shoulders.

                                                                          II

We sit huddled in a corner of the thatch-roofed bar beside the beered up men having spirited conversations. The football match is making no headway and almost over, and you lift your tankard of stout to my lips, urging me to take a sip. You tell me of the new spot where the suya is fresh and the beef is today’s butchered meat. We head to the aboki’s place and on our way I don’t know what you say but you fill my lungs with laughter and cause me to throw back my head and show my teeth to the moon. In his roadside shop, we watch the man stoke his fires as he barbecues the skewered meat, sprinkles spices on them. We eat straight from the newspapers and the pepper makes me cry. You laugh at me and pull me closer.

                                                                          III

There is a major delay as it's wont to be in our airports so we sit at the bench waiting for further announcements. I pick imaginary things from your hair, your beard. Activities of the milling crowd mushroom around us: a knot of Indians arguing in their tongue; a mother pulling a trolley and rebuking an unbiddable child; a very old man in a wheelchair pushed by a servant. You pull a face and tell me one month is too long to be gone, to be left starving, and I console you that Matthew the cook has you covered. You eye me and say, Man shall not live by that kind of bread alone. There are other things that satisfy the body and soul.

                          

                                                                           IV

I come home with some form of feat accomplished. I am brimming to the seams with good news and I cannot keep it still. You twirl me around and give me your knuckles to chop and tell me that I always know how to make your heart beat with humble pride. We drive home to our glass house. To celebrate.