A Strawberry Matcha Affair: part two

The Matcha

An orgasm, a seizure, or maybe both, I couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, I liked it. We did in fact go again and it was just as pleasant. The next morning we both lay in bed in comfortable silence, as I played with his beard that smelled of cider and his fingers trailed the arc in my back.

I took a deep breath, exhaled, “What are we doing?” I said softly, breaking the silence.

Turning slightly, he replied in a hoarse voice “Having a good time? ”

“Maybe… Look, I’m not trying to pressure you into anything.” My voice shaking, “I’m not saying I want anything from you either. But I would like to know what this is.”

He sat up straight, his fingers dancing on my belly, he turned and fixed his gaze on me. “I like you. I really do. The last few weeks with you have been…” He tilted his head, his eyes searched the sheets, his mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. I could hear the thumping of my heart increase with each second that passed. “It’s been beautiful, awesome really.” He said finally.

“But…”

“But, I’m not looking to get into anything serious right now.”

“I see.” I said, disappointed.

“I hope it’s not a problem?” His fingers that twirled suddenly laid motionless as his eyes stayed fixed on me. “I hope it’s not the last time we hangout.”

What is this Femi-esque behaviour?

I sat up straight, held his face close to mine, leaned in and kissed him for what felt like too long.

“I don’t do ambiguous,” I said, pulling away. “But this was lovely. And it was really nice getting to know you.” I got off his bed, and as I reached for my clothes, I added “But this is probably the last time we’ll hangout.”

I could see the disappointment spread across his face like wildfire. That makes two of us. The weight of the silence between us was heavy and it was crushing.

“I understand.” He eventually said.

The whole thing was foolish, but understandable, it was sad, but bearable. And despite everything, it was a perfect end. And it should've stayed that way. Why wasn’t I strong enough to hold my ground? Why?

I. DON’T. DO. AMBIGUOUS.

The phrase that plagues me whenever that day comes to mind—which has been every other day lately.

A few weeks went by without a text or call. His absence, palpable. But the girls kept me busy; with trips to the mall, coffee shop dates and day trips to Niagara to see the rapids. “Don’t mind these Toronto men, they don’t have sense!” they’d say sometimes, just to cheer me up. I was fortunate to have them.

One evening, alone on my couch and re-watching Good Will Hunting, the scene where Robin Williams talks about his wife farting in her sleep comes up, and I burst out laughing. But soon and out of nowhere, a wave of sadness washes over me. Because all I wanted to do in that moment was share that laugh with him, and I couldn’t. I reached for my phone, started typing, but decided against it. And just as I tried to put my phone down, the text came in.

Hey.

And that’s all it took to bring down my carefully built walls. That was the event that planted the seeds for the nonsense I’m feeling right now.

It was fine I thought. I’m going back to Kingston anyway, what’s the harm in a little fun along the way. I’ll set boundaries, it’s just vibes. I can keep my emotions out of it. That lasted for all of two weeks.

In my defence, I could easily have stuck to my boundaries, but Sokari's like a star pulling everything nearby into orbit; without thought, without effort, without regard. I hate him for it. The way he held my gaze, the way he listened—like his entire world depended on the next word I uttered. I let myself be engulfed by it, it was impossible not to.

Every Saturday morning we walked the Water’s Edge Promenade, enjoying the view of the calm waters that stretched out like fine wrapper splayed on green fields. We would walk all the way to the new Aqualuna Condos, which Sokari insisted only drug Lords could afford. Then we’d walk back to Aitken Place Park, sit on one of those swiveling chairs and talk for hours; about work, life, and about anything really. Sometimes we’d just sit there and people watch—the Chinese woman doing her stretches, the guy with dreads passing by and screaming words neither of us could make sense of. At 11:00 am we’d go over to Peter’s to get our fix of strawberry matcha, bringing the stroll to an end.

On one those strolls, when we got close to Aitken Place Park, we walked towards the edge of the water instead, sat on the cobblestone floor, our legs behind the metal railing, my head leaning on his shoulder and my body wrapped in his warm embrace, we sat in silence watching the still waters. It all felt really zen.

Then out of the corner of my eyes, I saw something beneath the water move. My shoulders perked up and I leaned away from him to get a better look.

“Oh My God!” I blurted.

“What?” He said with concern.

“Are those fishes?!” I squealed in excitement.

“Yep.” He said leaning in. And then stared at me in confusion.

I couldn’t stop grinning. “I know I know, it’s just fish. But somehow I don’t expect them to be here.” I said. “And they’re so big!” I felt like a kid again, I was giddy.

He shook his head and half-laughed.

This led to talk about childhood memories, which spiralled into: what inspires us, what keeps us up at night, and so on. Eventually I asked “What makes you want to be better?”

For him, he explained, it's his siblings. He sees the way parts of their lives are shaped by the decisions he makes and wants to leave a solid blueprint for them. “If I’m better, then maybe their starting point won’t be so bad.” He said.

We continued to talk, laugh, and admire the view for another hour or so. Each exchange left me feeling closer to him than before—maybe beneath the playboy and bravado, there was something more.

For whatever reason, that date sticks with me, but honestly, It's a lot of little things that held me in his orbit. For one, I ate good. God I ate good. And I don’t mean fancy restaurants, I mean this man put on an apron whenever I visited on the weekends and would proceed to make meals that slowly strips you of your conviction with each bite. “A Kalabari man woos you with his cooking” he’d say. Yeah, I didn’t stand a chance. Especially when he made that fisherman’s soup with half the Atlantic Ocean on my plate. God…

It was mostly smooth sailing after we got back together, no quarrel lasting more than 48 hours, nothing a kiss, a hug or an epistle couldn’t fix; until that day.

It was a fine Saturday morning and we decided to bike across the Toronto Islands. We started out really early to beat the crowds. Rented bikes using the bike share service on Centre Island, and started our journey east, towards Ward’s Island.

We had the Centre Island bridge almost entirely to ourselves, a rarity. This allowed us to really appreciate the scene. And as we weaved our way through the park, passed the water fountain, I saw a little snake slither across the road into the bushes to the right, I nearly fell from shock and fear. Meanwhile, Sokari staying true to form chased it down with no regard for self preservation, just to take a video.

“How are you still alive?” I asked.

“By the special grace of God” He smirked.

I shook my head.

We continued our trip east, zipping past greens upon greens and tall greens on either side of the road, making the path feel serene and reminiscent of the hiking trails in Gatineau. At one point, we came across a couple on the side of the road going through a proposal and we both joined random bystanders in cheering them on, with whistlings and woohoos. It was really nice.

On getting to Ward’s Island, we briefly stopped at the viewpoint to take in the Toronto Skyline and take some goofy photos. Then we rode through the neighbourhood with narrow paths and uninspired street names, like First, Second and Third Street. When we finished exploring the Island, we made our way West, for Hanlan’s Point Beach.

The ride down to Hanlan's Island was just as pleasant. On arriving, we docked our bikes and walked towards the Beach. At the entrance we were greeted by a sign post.

Nude Area.

This is a body positive space. Be respectful.

You will encounter naked people beyond this point.

The entire beach is clothing optional. You may wear clothes or be nude.

“So this is where you bring all your women?” I said as we walked down the narrow wooden path that led to the beach.

“Nah, only the really cute ones.” He said with an ominous look.

I glared. He snickered.

On the beach we set up a little spot with our blanket, ate snacks and people watched.

I don’t know what I expected, but the atmosphere was quite pleasant. Everyone looked free and seemed to be having a good time. Lots of men with their man parts swinging loose as they strut around unrestrained. There was a healthy mix of both men and women, young and old, mostly caucasians, but once in a while, I’d see a black person walk by. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the view.

Thank God for sunglasses.

Just then, I saw what could only be described as the perfect pair of tits—a neat right-angled triangle, with nipples as precise as the tips of a biro. Show off. I glanced over to Sokari and he too was fixated on them.

“Wow! No respect.” I playfully shoved my leg into his.

“What? You were looking too.” He smirked.

“So?”

“Sorry Ma.” He tittered. “I will avert my eyes.”

Later on, while I read and people-watched, he joined a group of naked people playing some version of squash near the shoreline and in typical Sokari fashion he too was nude.

“Aren’t you concerned your friends or someone you know might see you?”

He laughed.

“Sorry to break it to you, but uh, all my friends have seen a penis. They’ll be fine.” He kissed my forehead and scurried away.

Again, no sense of self preservation.

But in that moment, I realized I liked it. I liked him. All 5’8” of him—six feet if anyone’s asking. I like the way he moves through the world, like it’s his for the taking. The way he looks at me. That goofy smile. The way the sun glistens on his bald head and lush beard. I liked him.

Shit.

When we got back to his apartment, beach clothes tossed in the laundry, soft jazz playing in the background, he stood in the kitchen making us something to eat; I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Sokari,” I said softly.

“Ahh!” he exclaimed. “What did I do now?” He said chuckling without turning away from the hot top.

“Nothing.” I said, then sighed. “Don’t you think we should try?” I walked closer to him. “Try for something more serious?”

Half laughing and still not turning back, “Ahh… We’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

I said nothing.

“But we talked about this.” He said more seriously.

“Yeah we did.” Once again disappointed. Why did I think things would change? People DON’T change. “And did you have one?” I said, trying hard to stay calm. “A good time I mean.”

“See… the way you’re saying that, it doesn’t sound right.”

“It’s a valid question.” I said. “Did. You. Have. A good time?”

Nothing but the sound of jazz and the sizzling pan filled the air.

“I’m going home.”

“Wait. Don’t be like this. Don’t leave this way.” He stepped closer to hold me.

I shrugged his arm off. “Don’t be like what? Don’t be like what Sokari?” I couldn’t hold back anymore. ”What’s the point of all the dates? What’s the point of all the late night texts and early morning calls? The pillow talks, the shared dreams and goals like we’re in this together but we’re not?” I could feel tears coming but I fought them. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“You’re a coward!” I said loudly with a stern look. “Your words, your actions—all empty calories.” My voice shook as I suppressed the lump in my throat. “You’re too scared to give any of it meaning.” I finally said.

His face creased. His broad shoulders slouched. His mouth slightly opened, but no words followed. I had hurt him. I shouldn’t have said that. But whatever.

With no other words said, I grabbed my things and left.

The sound of my name snaps me out of thought. I grab my Tim Hortons order and wait to board. I thought we had something, really thought we did.

We move.

A Strawberry Matcha Affair: finale