“What are you looking for?”
He inboxed me. You don’t get a lot of that here. Most guys pretend to be ‘nice’ just so you can let your defences down. Smash-and-grab.
“I’m here for a good time not a long time…” I teased. He asked if I lived alone? I did. I asked if he was a serial killer? He wasn’t.
“My name’s Kenneth but my friends call me that tall handsome boy,”
“Hi tall handsome boy,”
“You are not my friend,” he quipped. Ha-ha. “And what’s yours?”
“Sandra, but my friends call me Boss Babe,”
“Can I just call you mine instead?” Ha-ha.
I liked this one. He was like White Capp & Nyama Choma, warm and fuzzy, wonderful on a cold, wintry day, but not a lot of sex appeal.
My previous entanglement was leftover Chipo Smokie: so whet and compelling in the refrigerator, but you were always sorry after you ate it. I knew love was supposed to be blind, but come on. Meh. Where’s the oomph?
This was a Tinder match that advertised all the flavours I lacked.
I woke up to a message describing the breakfast he had cooked for himself. French toast, sweet potatoes, eggs. “Enough for both of us,” he assured me.
“Tastes amazing,” I replied as I ate a handful of potato chips, chewing on his dogged air of confidence.
We both laughed — “ha-ha” — as I pulled him tighter into my electronic embrace.
“Btw, are you a dog person or cat person?” I typed.
“Dog person definitely!”
“Perfect,” I replied as I pinned my location, “I’m a doggy person too, see you in an hour.”
– Natalie, 25. Diani.