This pandemic has a reputation for pushing some people closer, while pulling others apart. When in a long-distance relationship, you pick up vital skills for a man. I became very good at packing. Praising the Lord. Praising the Lord while packing.
He had more red flags than a Chinese communist party. Love may be blind, but lust is both blind and idiotic.
“This isn't serious,” I say. “This isn't serious,” we say. Who wants to be serious?
Admitting that you toyed with the idea of a husband—much less that I even dreamed of taking his name—seemed like a betrayal of feminism.
He had never claimed me. Was this now a promising sign, or was he just being a mensch? Technically, we were not in a relationship, we were just together.
People think every girl with a white man is after his money. That's true. I loved his honesty. A Kenyan man would be vowing nuptials, saying his “I Do's” and he'd still text: “Babe, unado?”
I'm eating more carrot cake than ever. I'm leaving angry, spiteful spam messages on Zuku social media accounts. I'm living alone and I love it.
We have become the cliché of roommate-ness, who occasionally fondle with each other like two girls experimenting. In fact, our silence says it all.
Except it took a few strings to get you this job. Pulled by your area MP. Hon. Sak- ha-ha. The final string he pulled was the G-string he requested you come wearing. Damn.
This was the most important group work since they built the pyramid. But then a don never explains himself. At least Reddington never did. On second thoughts, Red never kept a girlfriend. Too bad.