Green

I feel cool liquid dripping down my hand. I have a strong sense that I should be moving but my feet feel glued to the scorching hot pavement. I wonder whose idea was the popsicles anyway. Not that it changes anything. I wouldn't want to live in a world were popsicles were a deal breaker anyway. Regardless I don't think I will ever look at a popsicle and not feel like things are getting away from me.

My hand is starting to feel sticky and suddenly I'm in a hurry to get rid of the damn thing.The empty feeling suddenly washes over me the moment it hits the bottom of the bin. 

I think about the first time we held hands. On a bus. Under a Macroeconomics book I was holding for a friend. My armpits were soaked and my neck was stiff with the effort it took to not turn and check if he was feeling it too. 

I remember watching him walk away that day sure it would be the last time I heard from him. It wasn't. This was it. I wish I had watched. Had he even looked back? Was his shoulders slumped, weighed down by regret. Or was he light and carefree and finally free.

The first time we shared a summer drink I was sceptical. He suggested a blue slurpee. I mean what flavour even is blue? You can't even pretend it's not an unhealthy chemical cocktail. But the moment I got over that brain freeze I felt so refreshed. At the risk of living through having been told so, I whooped loudly and earned a smile from him. That smile.. 

The slurpee was the first of such discoveries at his hands. Which brings back to mind the popsicle. It has to have been his idea. I was never the suggester. Maybe instigator, sometimes cajoler but never the suggester. All the good ideas had always been his. So maybe this is for the best. It is after all his idea.

I look back at the woman sitting with her daughter selling popsicles and assorted snacks to school children at the school day's end. The air around her cracks with laughter as she gossips with the elderly vendor sitted next to her. I can only marvel at how they could find joy after hours of being beaten down by the sun, choking down dust and haggling with school children for already woefully underpriced snacks. I am, as is usual with me, immediately convinced they are laughing at me. Word on the street, a girl gets dumped when she makes the wrong choice in popsicles. Are they speculating as I am, if it is their popsicles that had just murdered my happy ending? I'm sure the woman with the neat cornrows, sparkly shirt and green Ankara wrap to match her green button earrings would say it has something to do with my appearance.

But in my defence the only reason why I look like I just woke up, picked up random items and threw them on is because that is exactly what I did. See love is all about compromises. My former talk dark and compelling features former interest detested tardiness. So I developed last minute hacks so I could always make it on time to him. Hacks like picking up the first thing I see and throwing it on and rushing to meet him before a bare glance at a mirror. The result is my deserter of a suitor never got a princess. But he always got me, crinkled tees and out of breath me but always on time. That is how I found myself in my old wrinkled adventure race tee, dirty tennis shoes which looking down had added a few drops of green and box braids that were definitely two weeks past renewal.

The wise older vendor would probably say it's personality that matters. She would guess that maybe what I lacked in appearance I made up in personality. That's the thing about it though. She would be sweet but wrong. The truth is lack of spark is what defined me. It was my quirk. I was a sum of last minute hacks. Like in a conversation. He is talking a mile a minute and I'm shuffling, following along seven miles behind. If he's expecting a response he gets hack 38, smile and nod. He is happy that I'm listening, I'm happy to be in his orbit, everyone is happy. Or so I thought. 

Green studs catches my eye and I realise I've been staring. Im suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. Somewhere my brain reel is not rolling.

I have so many questions and the person with some of the answers has just apologized. I cannot stand here feeling sorry for myself. 

I shuffle off. Where would I go next if I was being pursued or more accurately let go?. 

Of course I can't go home. I snicker. That little bit about home being where the heart is? He had never lived in my house but I had never felt at home with anyone else. So I can't go to him...ever again. And I can go to my abode. My foot barely misses a pothole and I'm brought back to my surroundings.

Life goes on around me. Housewives hang washing on their lines while gossiping with next door neighbours. Unemployed youth exaggerate about their supposed hustles. Tears hurry down my cheeks.

With every rejection I have always thought that I will never be surprised again. While my thoughts are dissecting our first kiss, last fight and everything in between and concluding no surprise. My body is registering surprise. In the way my chest is clenched and my throat is tight. As if he literally took my breath away when he strutted off. My hands are like shaking like a leaf. I suddenly see all the times I've chuckled and said clumsy as I threw my latest accident into the bin. I wish I had never accepted that about myself. Then maybe things wouldn't be getting away from me so easily.

I suddenly have the most decisive thought I have had in a while. I turn around and head back to get myself a green popsicle.