Stories About Women

WHEN GIRLS FLIRT

"Joel, I don't know how to explain it," Rhika told me. "It's...it's like something that happens to me...like my emotions..." He stammered. He really didn't know how to put it. I was there to gather juice that might muse my next short story. I let Rhika do the talking. I only chipped in when necessary.

"Once I see a woman," Rhika continued, "The first thing that comes to mind is how her body looks outside her clothes, the color, and shape of her nipple, the areola around it; if stretch marks lined on it, or if her skin was as smooth as clay. And it doesn't go without me wanting to have these women physically." He paused, looking at his empty glass. "At least, mature and attractive women in their late twenties. And sometimes, women past forty. I can't tell if it is because I am a quiet person and one who don't find it hard to remain silent among others." Rhika broke off again. He raised his hand a little to signal the barman.

"I think you should slow down on the whiskey," I told him but didn't care less. From how deep the things he reeled out were, my guess was he was already drunk. If not, tethering at the edge. But I didn't mind the too much information. If anything, I appreciated it and hoped for more.

"It's fine," Rhika said, "I am not driving. Besides I need to do this." He stopped talking when the barman arrived with a tray and placed a fresh glass of whiskey on the table. No ice. And took the empty glass. He continued when the barman walked out of earshot.
"And the thing is I begin..." he stopped mid-sentence and looked straight into my eyes. He was the first Nigerian I saw with natural blue eyes. "Joel," he reached across the table for my hand. "Promise to twist everything I tell you today. Please..."

"It's alright." I covered his hand with my other hand. "I can't do that to you."

"Promise?" His blue eyes pierced mine.

"Really?"

"Just promise."

"Okay, I promise."

He left me and picked his glass of whiskey. He sipped and scrunched his face as the liquid slipped down his throat. As one who was recovering from being an alcoholic, it was a bad idea for me sit in a bar, perceiving the coffee scent in the whiskey. but I had no option. Rhika refused to meet me elsewhere if not the bar tucked in O.T street.

He dropped the glass and said, "I instantly begin to feel something like a chain gird my heart...I begin to feel in love (at least that's what I think I feel) with these women. Especially when I have the opportunity to meet them more than once. I become utterly convinced I love them and can't live without them. But once I have the opportunity to gaze their nakedness-coincidentally or consensually (which was mostly the case) -the feeling gradually fades like the setting sun, gone like it was never there. Then a cold feeling of hatred and disgust-like the moon-emerges. I basically don't have to sleep with them for this feeling to kindle. I really can't explain it." He sipped again.

Rhika owned a cosmetic shop, he explained, so he got to meet women every day. Different sizes, ages, and colors. At first, when these women meet him, they gaze, advert their gaze, then like someone not fully convinced, they return their gaze to him. Probably wondering if his blue eyes were real. Like a good salesman, he lunches into small talks with these women. The product they were about to purchase remained the bases of their conversation, at first, It always escalated.

As he spoke to them, he tried to analyze how their breast or buttocks curved in what they wore. Revealing, which was mostly the case. Scarcely were they fully clothed. They would throw their heads back and laugh in between their conversation. He wasn't a funny person. It was a sign, he explained further, that a woman was interested to talk more. Maybe over a drink or a plate of rice. He would ask for her number and when she inputs it on his Samsung, he would flash a smile and say, I will call you.