Love in Cliche
He lay next to her watching her fade away, leaving him. The slight warmth of her body the only reminder that he was not yet alone.
He squeezed her hand gently, the only way he can now tell her he still loved her. These hands that once picked him up from the depths of hell and restored him to sanity. The hands that he toyed with while they made love. Hands that held their children, bathed them and fed them till they were old enough to fly their own wings.
Her skin still shone like the first time he set eyes on her. She walked in like the sun busting through cumulus clouds. The sun that brings forth the rainbow and chases away the cold.
She left a scent like the earth after the rain had packed up and went its way. Her eyes reflective like glass panes on a sky scraper. He mastered every detail of her in those forty seconds. How her feet barely touched the ground as if she was walking on air, gliding gracefully like ghosts on a cemetery. Her hair black, shabby on the edges, deliberate. She was intimidating for any man who knew her worth.
He did not approach her on first sight. He was too scared. Courage eluded him. So he waited every day in the seat right next to Kaldi’s door hoping she would swing by for another cup of coffee. A day passed, a month, three months. It seemed fate had colluded with destiny to deny him his true love.
Six months went by but she was not forgotten. He wrote poems about her. The little he could remember now stretched in a mix of reality and imagination. Then one Tuesday afternoon there she was. Squatting next to a pile of books on Tom Mboya street, carefully looking for a masterpiece like an Indian housewife at the market.
He walked over and picked the first book he could lay his hands on knowing from that day forth he would love books. “The Sterling Epigram”.
“Have you read this? I hear it’s an amazing read?”
And the rest as they say is history.