You had not wanted to date John Chucks. He had been everything from compulsive to unbelievable. You remember that you had first made his acquaintance on a call to the Bank where you work as a customer agent, and he had had that nice, collected and well-put-together voice of someone who was too relaxed for his own good. You had admired his voice, and his calmness, but that had been that. And then, he had called you on your private number on an unsuspecting Sunday, asking how you were and if you had been to Church and what you had been doing before he called. Your face had paled at his attempt at familiarising with you on such level. Who the hell did he think he was?! You had lambasted him, and told him never to call your line again. You had been irate.
You remember that he had not stopped calling after that time, and soon, you had saved his number as “Don’t pick”, and ignored his messages; but nothing would stop him. You remember that on one Monday, he had popped into your office. As a stranger, he had looked gorgeous and perfect. 6ft tall, bald shiny head, well-gatored shirt, on a pair of Chinos. He had been too close for you to see the make of his shoes, but the click they made on the tiled Bank floor as his feet kissed the ground assured you they were just as fine as the rest of him– until he put a name to the face and identified himself as John Chucks. The John Chucks. You had turned into a mad black woman at once and bolted to the Ladies, while you asked your colleague Sandra to attend to him. You could not believe his audacity.
You remember that you had mentioned him to Amaka, your ‘sister from another mother‘ and live-in-mate, who had eventually persuaded you to give him a listen, if even once; because to her he did not sound half as bad. You had pointed to her that he gave off the sheer signs of a stalker. She had rebuked you for being paranoid, and blamed your unfounded scepticism on the numerous Hollywood movies you were always keen on watching in the confines of your room. You shrugged her off, but her words stayed with you. You had put his name away for a tinny bit of a second, and thought of him as the guy whose voice and appearance you had tripped smack down for. And he had started to look just half as good to you too. Amaka had cajoled you to have a date with him. You had feigned resistance, but deep down within you, you knew you wanted to know what it was about you that drove him to such persistence. More, you wanted to know if it would last. And so, you saw him.
He had been good to you, shrugging your profuse apologies away with an easy smile. The same smile he had been carrying towards you the first day he came to visit you at your office. His face held the most colourful smile, like a canvas splattered with a rainbow arc. You had talked easy with him, about every possible thing. He had a good sense of humour. You had teased him about how you had thought he had to be jobless reaching out to you every time as he did, and even popping at your office in the middle of the busiest day of the week. What had he been thinking?! He had laughed, like a music box. He had then told you he was a Freelance Writer. He said it didn’t mean he was never busy, it just meant he made time for the things that mattered to him. Your heart had melted at the sound of that. You had always wanted to date a writer. A lot more had been said, and he had placed a gentle kiss on the side of your lips as he walked you to your car. That night, everything had changed. Well, almost everything. You still thought he was too good to be true, but then you had changed his name to “Just Maybe” on your phone.
Only weeks later, you had started dating. And he would send you love notes every morning. He made it easy to fall in love with him. He became less persistent, but remained consistent in his efforts to let you know you still meant as much to him as you did the very first time. You would fight, and argue about how you hated to meet his friends because you were not much of a social person, or how he rarely bought you gifts and only sent you love notes that you were sincerely beginning to get tired of. And you would almost go days without talking, but you wouldn’t mind; because despite loving him, you are hell-bent on frustrating his coy intentions out of him. You still think the devil has sent him to make a mockery of you. To your dismay, he would always be the first one to call a truce, one day after or so, meeting you halfway. And after every make up, you would love him better and deeper, against your will.
It is your first year anniversary today, and he has bought you a stunning necklace and a book bracelet. He has organised a little surprise party for you, in the company of his friends and your friends, where he reads you a poem he had written for you. You smile, and cry at the same time. You can’t believe you’ve come this far with him; yet, as each second ticks on, you keep waiting for him to make that mistake, or that stupid move; or confess it’s all a stupid prank, or a silly game… you keep waiting for something, anything. Because he is just too good to be true.
“If it is too good to be true, it probably is.”- Unknown
© The Short Black Girl, 2016.