My Last Bad Man
Learning to see a relationship without rose-colored glasses
The beginning
He danced with me on an empty, pin-drop quiet street in Lagos into the small hours of the morning, moving me through yellow-dim lighting with his breath against my ear, hand below my waist. I miss being spun by him. He understood, intimately, the poetry with which I want to move through life, chasing beauty as far as my legs can carry me.
I learned a lot from him.
I especially loved his name, and would tell him so often. In Igbo culture, we believe your name is your destiny, but his name was a trick.
The middle
Him: "I’ve finally figured out what you smell like: 4 p.m — like there’s a little bit of work left to do, but you’re almost home free.”
My past had two people in common with his present. Two men I had been involved with. One turned out to be his friend from school and the other, a close friend of mine. He pretended like he could move past it but instead used it like a stick to beat me with every day.
“You embarrass me.”
“I’m afraid that if we walk into a party together, you will have slept with all my friends in the room.”
