22. The Love Café
AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHY Mirth’s POV All The Way Through Is this what love for someone whom you find irresistible feels like? Is this how it feels? My heart is whipping and pounding at high-speed; the melodies are too piercing and boisterous; I quiver and tremble aggressively—and yet it looks like that I do not give a damn at all. He is there right next to me. I can feel his presence. I am entirely aware of it. I can sense it. He is not in his tangible and corporeal self. He is the one that I love. The one who has hit and thrashed me with immense love and obsession all of a sudden and unpredictably. He came into my life out of nowhere. Out of the blue even. And he has not ever went away from me ever since then. I can still commit to memory the first day that we laid eyes on each other. I had butterflies flurrying and flapping about incessantly in my stomach all the long while that I was in his presence and company. Then he gave me that gaze of revulsion and stared at me like he found me to be this unbearably ugly and hideous. Damn him! How dare he? How dare he treat me that awful and vulgar way? How dare you, Charles? Guess what comes off next? The guy walks out on me in addition to that, leaving me totally powerless and irritated and incensed with myself. I feel that I will never see him for a second time; I am so pleased and delighted about it. I don’t ever want to run into an uncouth, boorish, and bad-mannered him all over again. I am mistaken nonetheless. We are not over and done yet, it shall in a little while turn out. I had not defied ogling and making vulnerable eyes at this man. And him on the other hand? He stared at me like I was some piece of trash and garbage. Damn him once more for it!? Damn him, I repeat!? Charles. I hate him! I can’t stand him! I detest him! The sun is gleaming and sparkling all about me. I am basking and lazing around in the newly lukewarm air, stretching and drawing out my hands as I please, cracking my eyes open and then snapping them shut at my willpower. Yeah. It is all so pleasurable and enjoyable to get some tan on, or is it not? It of course is. I try not to process it but it is all so understandable and unmistakable in my viewpoint. Alpha has happened to fall in love with me. Maybe he is just having some impractical, inane crush on me that will fade away with the trailing off of time. Maybe he will stop loving and caring for me this loving and friendly way that he does. Maybe yes—maybe not. I am taking a nippy bath right now, hushed and lost in thoughts of my own. The water is enjoyably cold against my flesh, spraying and dripping on my skin in that breathtaking and dazzling way that I cannot help but feel delighted and amused about. Yes. It is all so apparent that he wants me…and I am aching after Charles on the other hand. Damn you, Mirth! Won’t you try to be sensible and level-headed like your differing half, Sam, is, and not this needy and reliant on your feelings and sentiments to steer you wherever it is that they reckon suitable and fitting to venture. It is not the very first time that Alpha flashes me one amazingly bright and glittery smile; not the first time that he embraces and holds me in his arms in that demonstrative and amorous way; not his foremost effort to keep hold of my hand welcomingly and kindheartedly; not the first time he calls me by those sweet, juicy-sounding names; not the first time he gazes at me in that purely and long absorbed and very gripped way; not the first time he lets me see the clues and tip-offs that he is so much after me…but I ache for Charles even still. Why? I do not unerringly know the answer to that. You may be wondering how these two poles-apart but good company guys both look like. I will make it all basic and recognized to you. Alpha is dark, profoundly murky in skin quality, but not so much dim like his big brother, Harien. He is this unbelievably tall, even as more tall than I myself am. In count to this, he furthermore has got penetrating and incisive black eyes and infinitesimal and hardly any zits and blackheads on his four-sided like figured face. His lips are bulky and scarlet-auburn like. Like me, his head is what's more undersized and small. But not appallingly. This is what his appearance is like. Charles on the other hand, he is this outstandingly gorgeous and beautiful and high—but not anywhere close to where Alpha and I myself are. Glowing and beaming as though they were pale, faded rays from some out-of-sight sun, his skin is without a flaw and impeccably wishy-washy, unlike that deep subterranean black tint of his infantile brother, Darius. His hair is as indistinguishable as charcoal or sable as some polished and burnished piece of coal and agreeably silhouetted and satisfactorily put together at most times. When it is slashed and hacked, the figure and form of his head is likewise impressive to glance at and extraordinarily bewitching. His eyes are a bit coffee shining with some dreary and inquisitive look to them. Yes. He doesn’t look that very much of an intellectual and an architect all in all. In fact, he is not that very intellectual and brainy. Bodily facades and endowments are his principal talent and goodly privileges. There we have them. Associate and companion; friend and chum; but they are not the best ever playmates around. I have a sly, sneaky feeling that Charles drew nearer to Alpha as means and ways to draw closer to me. Maybe I am in the wrong? Duh! Who cares? Do you? The ache; the wrenching twinge; I cannot find any good quality and pleasing sleep at all. Damn it!? I split my eyes open as speedy and rapid as I can. I stir and get myself seated on my made-of-wood, rock-swinging like ocean waves, lone, ancient-times bed. It rows and rackets vociferously without misgiving. And I am all used to it. Shit. What is the day this morning? Thursday, 11 December 2014; and the clatters out there? They are not that dreadfully much deafening and shrill, but yes, there are some haphazard and infrequent and up-to-the-minute name bawls. Some of which fit in with my pretended anecdote characters and most-preferred TV personalities. These idiots and their new-fangled do-business and posts. I wonder how much they get compensated for everything that they carry out. If it is a couple hundred dollars, I am sure to join their mob and exertion itself. I don’t go out much these days. To some extent because I have 4,000 narrative and tale words to crank out in my liberated time. School Accounts assessments are drawing nigh. They definitely are. We will be started on Monday, 15 December and be through by the strike of Friday, 19 December. Of course, I must be full of activity revising and studying much harder then ever before, right? Doubtlessly. I don’t want to not make the sky-scraping grade this time around all over again. I have two subject debts to deal with this semester and the last two in that near-term year. There is just so much to do…and I have to kick against being in this heavy and fright-some panic. Yes, I have to. Exams, assessments, and question papers. They are what are more often than not preoccupying my mind right this moment. Examinations and tests. Holy bullshit! Did someone just yell Chore-chore out there? Well, let her toil with her mouth and be given no any slim recompense for it. Esnart, my aunt, more and more carps about how so isolative I am of myself. “Why do you always like to be by yourself all the time?” She continually asks me—day in and day out. You know one thing? Being a writer is the most without-a-friend-in-the-world and abandoned kind of risk and gamble in this world. Maybe when you’re that reasonably well-known and going about to offer speeches and convene with citizens and natives who are ardent and obsessive about the very things that you yourself are…maybe then that aloneness and solitude of yours will be packed and left behind for a little bit while. But once you get back to your inscription and lettering routines and practices that got you where you at-this-time are, then you must realize that the very same tedious and yet pleasant but wearing and not-up-to-scratch course will launch all over again. If I were an actor or just an affiliate of some song band, I would have to accomplish my work and labors in the first-rate companionship and friendship of others. But then I am not. Meaning that everyday aloneness and seclusion is the custom and norm. Of course, it beyond doubt is and for all time will be. I detest it at times when people amass and meet up by my door just so to sit down and natter and heckle at me in not-direct ways. What do they think they will pull off by doing that? Forcing me to ditch my work for the sole errand and support of their companionship? Not so winning with me. When I am in my writing frame of mind, I will not be taken aback and discontinued by anything at all; and when I am in my meeting-and-hanging-out with the public atmosphere, I will not be stunned and dazed out of it either. That’s the way it is. Yeah. Like Celine Dion crooned and chanted in relation to it. It is still morning when my petite-heighted and light, excessively visioned but not too much snoopy neighbor—double crap, I don’t even know her genuine name—shifts close to my door to take the weight off her feet and chat with the others in that mode and approach that is preordained to harass and do emotional violence to me. Okay, I will call this woman Anabeth here. It is not her bona fide name in any case. I don’t feel I have the guts and bravery at this point in time to go off and ask her what her true name is. Duh! I just can’t act that out. Maybe in some other future time. Maybe… I grimace to myself as I slouch down on my bed, trying to process and comprehend the attention-grabbing, to some extent convoluted stuff that I am cramming on in perfect silence. And I have those shit of an assemblage seeking to agitate and disconcert me? Oh my. These are people who fritter and squander day in and day out in redundant get-together and looking for more or less about any minor fly to swat and whack dead as well as cleverly-furnished bugs that they may pester and torture. What a life? At any rate, how do I hit them back? Uncomplicated and trouble-free, though I have not placed and laid much contemplation and consideration into it. For now, I just want to wade through my schoolwork and get completed and finished with my impending exams…and maybe after then I can involve myself in their scoundrel, scalawag exploits a little bit. I sing. At full volume. In a slapdash fashion even. That fresh but fading in time, excellent song. Johnny. Yemi Alade, a Nigeria-footed entertainer, invented and performed it. They know that I am keen on it so very much; and as quickly as I let go my voice out, I have hushed and shut them up. But for a slight minute while even. We shall get on on a very lengthy, stretched, and nonstop blows-exchange with all this…it seems. Yeah. That is what it positively seems like. I no go tell lies na-h!