#NaPoWriMo2016 | Day 18 of 30. A short story by Juliet Kego – “An Omelette For Two.”
I’m not sharing poetry today, rather a piece of prose I wrote a while back to celebrate the beauty of love and loss…Enjoy!
A short story: An Omelette For Two.
Mama, Hajia and your little cousin Zain came by yesterday. They said I looked very skinny, sunken eyes and all bones. I don’t want them to worry so. Or move in here and crowd our space. My night cries need no audience. It’s the one time I get to spend with you. With the world dead and oh-so-whispery quiet. And I curl into an oval ball in the middle of our room. A perfect spot for my tears to sing wordless songs that I know only you would understand.
So I got up early today, I made an omelette the way you like them. The way you’d taught me. Over the phone. Our last conversation before you got on the flight home. I’d promised you a hot breakfast in bed. You’d requested that I’d serve it with only a scarf around my neck. You said you found a perfect scarf in the duty-free store. Ah, you are my crazy, crazy heart…
And so I made the omelette today, exactly how you’d said. With a little dash of olive oil, some sautéed mushrooms, parsley, roasted green, red, yellow peppers and sullen swiss chard (I guess like me, they’d lost their zany, crunchy bite for life).
Did you know there are red swiss chard? Fascinating. I saw it in the new grocery store near the library. There was a brief moment in the kitchen, when everything sizzled on the pan and whiffed up to my nose, and I swear, it was mixed with the hint of the faintest scent of your cologne. I closed my eyes and inhaled it in, until my lungs felt full with the breath of you.
I poured out a glass of wine. That’s a lie. I poured out two glasses. You see, sometimes I still forget. Actually, I forget often. I tend to wake up in a start most mornings, missing the feel of your bared, muscled frame spooning me. I wake up, disoriented, staring at the ceilings, with a dazed, anchor-less, dull, achy feeling. Everything feels empty and yet the weight of the loneliness constricts my chest, as if my heart is struggling to find it’s place or a new bearing within my body….
Like I’m adrift at sea or somewhere where my body does not belong to me anymore. Like now, here in this space, I see what looks like sunlight peeking into the living room. And I wonder briefly if it’s still morning or afternoon. But does it really matter if it’s dusk or dawn? The days seem to just drift on and on, into days and weeks….
I sat me down on the couch where you’d always laid your head on my thighs. And we’d watch re-runs and news clips and talk of nothing and everything. You sure knew how to talk! And how we’d argue and argue. I’m smiling into the wineglass now, all misty-eyed, as I recalled how I’d shut you up by putting a nipple in your mouth.
The answering ache in my belly to those hot tongue and low-humming suckling sound. A slow burn. An implosion, exploding out. How I miss your fire. And how so like you when sated, you’d laugh your laugh. Your laugh! How I miss that hearty, gusty, child-like, crazy laugh, with a knowing twinkle in those intelligent pools of dark brown….
Oh, I remember how you’d slid a hot one in me when you wanted to win the fight. How we fought! I miss those fights. I miss the silence and the soothing sounds of our heartbeats, one leading, the other lagging. Reminding me that I’d never be alone. Both of us, always in perfect rhythm. I miss the flow of us. I miss you. I miss me; that person I was when I was with you. Beloved. Entrenched in me. With each swallow. I sat here alone and I missed you. Oh, how I miss you! With each bite of the omelette, I gulped more of the wine. The two glasses, a lusty gulp from one to the other, back and forth like a drinking ping pong….
It was as if I needed it’s smooth taste to dilute the taste of the food. Because with each bite, I tasted you. In my tongue. On my nape. In my inner thighs. On my belly button. I guess I’ll write about all this tomorrow. The priest and iman both agreed that writing would do me some good. But I was never the writer. I was only gifted at reading your words because all you ever wrote about was me. All your stories were about the magic of us….Anyways, I did it. I did something other than mope and cry all day. I made an omelette for us.
The End. ❤ Juliet Kego Ume-Onyido