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Curbing Anxiety By Ebuka Evans

POSTED 10/03/2018 15:17
3161 Reads Curbing Anxiety By Ebuka Evans, short story on Tushstories
She had sat by her window on one of those mornings nature talked to people through fallen mango leaves that held past memories in their veins. She had watched two birds on an electricity cable whistle affection to each other. She saw them bring their beaks together as if to kiss then her soul began flying away with one of those discarded black nylon bags on the streets, discordantly, in Brownian's motion, because she was empty, because it was empty. The times he touched her, and she felt that it was her mother’s hands, or no, her father’s, hard touches that made her soul feel something, something it always wanted to feel, something it must feel. Or when he held her waist in public, like her waist beads and pierced his touch into her, an invisible touch that always slid downwards at midnight when she was all alone and thinking of him and wanting to be touched. Or when they kissed I love you down each other’s throats, using their tongues to guide their words.

But now she was empty, like those nylon bags, emptiness had granted abilities, flying away, out of herself. She had lost herself, or herself had just finished inside her, because she always gave her all, because those ,alls never came back, like all the men she had loved.

She can't remember when last she kept a man so close, except on the bed, or on the floor, and at times her kitchen table. They all demanded a lot, she thought, or they were not just perfect, but they had that word smeared all over them when she first saw them and wished them into her life. For her, wishes were horses, at least on those times, when men ‘wished' into her body and she let them, and she became a genie that granted the wish that his kettle be taken away.

Her love life was like fine things, so fine like something paid for in compensation for a crime, to appease, to free one’s self, but that was for a while. Then the painful memories of holding hands with a man at the suya stand, those squeezed newspapers that they discarded after, things became like that, like that crime never happened, like a fine was never warranted, like her lover and her never had any connection, when they first met at the café, drinking coffees of themselves into each other, drawing pictures of each other with gazes, or at the mall, when he walked up to her and commented on her beauty, calling her a bird, one he would later tell to fly away, or that such strange connection at the library, where she imagined his name as Frank, or Rudy, the name of the most charming character in the book she read, or Napoleon the historical figure on the pages of that history book she had to read for an assignment, that conquers her heart with so much effortless trying.

She had met a man last night at the laundry, where she always went to wash up her life, that were in clothes that had laid discarded on the floor of her apartment for days, after her alls giving.

“He looks different”, she had said to herself, like she had seen the faces of all the men on earth, and he spoke like snow, cold, and harmless.

She had promised to meet him tonight at a restaurant across the street where all the staff knew her with the faces of different men, but when she got there he wasn't there. She had never believed in the transubstantiation of wafers to the real flesh of Jesus, but this man seated with her was transformed into another person, not the one she saw last night.

An hour ago into their date, she had told him how she had always been dumped and a priest somewhere was holding him between his fingers chanting incantations. She had told him that she had fallen in love with him just yesterday, just like that, and that she never wanted to lose him, she had poked out her lips to kiss him.

“What is wrong with you?” he had asked.

“I just want to keep you, baby”

“Cindy, listen, you sound disturbed to me”

“No, I am not”

“Why did your exes leave?”

“Is that necessary? They were fools, they weren’t worth me!”

Then he walked out.

She had cried there, he walked out on her. After he told her to fix herself, yes, she was broken, but she wanted to be loved again, she always wanted to be loved, she couldn’t stand herself not being loved, but he walked away. She was broken. She had never had time to curb the anxiety she had towards men, wanting to be loved, and that man was anxiety, an anxiety afraid to be with another anxiety, so he left, without even coming in.

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