When I woke up on that Monday morning, a week after the Sunday fiasco at Yinka’s place, I could hear Bryson in the shower. I remained lying in bed without moving, deliciously tired and content. There was a warm, wonderful glow inside me, and I didn’t want to move in case it went away.
I could see from the luminous dial of the clock perched on the nightstand that it was some minutes to 6am. And the glom of the dawn cloaked the inside of the room, not entirely hiding its unfamiliarity from me. In the two weeks since I began officially dating Bryson, last week was when I first visited him at his place, and subsequently began spending the night frequently with him, leaving for work from his bed. It was longer, more tedious commute, from Festac to Yaba, but the prospect of the passion expended on his sheets at night and the contentment that came from waking to his morning musk far outweighed the inconvenience of striving through the hectic traffic of the morning.
“You’re just in the honeymoon phase,” Yinka said when we talked on the phone on Thursday night, the third night I spent at Bryson’s place. “Everything with and about him seems so easy now, so blissful. It gives you the fortitude to simply breeze through everything else. Your parents could disown you now, and you wouldn’t mind. After all, you’ve got another daddy giving you what you truly need.”
I could imagine the impish expression on his face as he said that, and I roared with laughter at the imagination and his words. Continue reading