Him and I: The Right Kind of Wrong

Bethelhem Teame

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………Continued from earlier

I don’t really know how I should start charging my heart for the unplanned, unauthorized and unnecessary expenses it is adding to my daily spending. I have realized that my heart has a champagne taste on a beer budget and that is just not acceptable with me. Crazy, wanton, diva heart. For instance, how do I record today’s taxi fare on my account books? Surely, I need to open a ledger under a ‘miscellaneous heart-wish expenses’  and would record expenses as such on it. Both time and bookkeeping effective. If it were totally up to my mind to decide on my fate that evening, I would have walked the way home in that bitter, cold winter weather and freeze and imprison this wanton heart of mine into an icebox. The more it is beating, the wanton it is getting, so it seems.

The cab’s stereos were blasting on full volume a Ragga music. The cab driver looks like he is in trance and kept muttering ‘ Jah!’ at every interval of the song. Fake Rasta.  I was so tired but I can tell he isn’t the real McCoy. His futile attempt to grow his hair into dreadlocks brought a smile to my face, it’s between what seems to be a very short dreadlocks and some untwisted or upbraided kinky hair-mass. His choice of very bold and loud color attires in the middle of a dead winter stands him out even among the real Rastas.  What is a real Rasta? You might ask, well…., let’s not get into that now. This guy however was trying so hard that made him come across someone with identity crisis. But who am I to speak of identity crises here right? His music was getting loud by the minute, if it’s possible. I wanted to shout at him to get a grip,  of himself, life or anything but I held back.  I didn’t want to seem more obnoxious than I already am. Besides, this is America, why taunt this poor fellow of his freedom of expressing himself, which probably might be the same violated freedom in his country that drove him to the territories of other countries. Nope. Not me. I am not going to do that. I know how precious freedom is. So let him ragga away his night, if it would mean guaranteeing his freedom of expression  or  would attest that he is a Rasta.

I decided to make my stop a corner away from my place. The cold weather would do me good, you know inject some logic into my senses. Paid, tipped and wished the Fake Rasta a pleasant evening and embarked on my journey in the midst of the  mounds of snow on the side streets. I was being careful, I don’t want to fall flat on my ass and end up being a post on the social media feeds or tweets. These days people don’t have any respect for anything, all our private things  and moments are voluntarily being broadcasted on the public domain. Even the most outrageous actions that we used to do in the dark are now being proudly displayed for all to see. Why else would ISIS broadcast slaughtering hostages out in the open? The last time I checked people killed people in secret, in the dark, behind closed doors. Anyway, I was thinking this when I turned the corner and froze what is wrong with me? No, let me paraphrase my question what is wrong with my eyes, that they make me see him everywhere I turn to? Am I hallucinating too?Gud fela zendro.

However, my eyes didn’t play any tricks on me. He was standing outside my door, fighting with himself to knock or not to knock…..that is the question. Despite the slippery, icy roads, I wanted to run to him and end up in his arms; but another part of me wanted me to walk calmly and gracefully to taunt him and gloat over a slow victory dance…..my mind, however, didn’t want either ideas, my mind, sitting behind the dark, musky chair of authority, smoking its expensive cuban cigar wanted freedom from the influence of this man, thus to turn back and avoid tonight’s occurrence. I could feel and sense my whole system revolting against my mind. There is a war inside me now. A real one, different parts with different agendas are rebelling against my mind…..perhaps a coup d’etat?

I scrutiny him from a closer distance. He was carrying a pastry box from Paris Baguette Cafe, my favorite. He kept checking his watch and looking up at my window, as if sending me a telepathy message from his heart would help turn the lights on in the room. Everything else was rushing me to throw myself at him, everything else but my mind. Hey, Fiammetta, today is the day where you display your inner strength to turn over the game, this situation and the coup d’etat which is going on inside you against the throne of your mind.  Here we go again, once my mind starts giving me a pep talk, it goes on and on an irritating monologue for hours.  I hushed it down with a violent nod.

He is hesitating. He is not sure. I noticed with askance. The fact that he is hesitating outside my door was enough of a proof for me to listen to the warnings of my mind. Love is still a game for both of us. Its reality hasn’t been yet registered in our minds. That is why we are the right kind of wrong to each other. There is a big bang, when we meet, – a nuclear blast that consumes everything in sight before it swallows both of us. We would burn each other down. But who would choose to burn out or down? Besides, I need a keeper, not another gambler. I think one gambler in a relationship is tolerable but with two players in it,  it is just drastic.  So I turned around and left before he does. Deep down I knew he wouldn’t knock my door and let me see this side of him that he always covers with the bad boy vibe.  He would leave after standing there for few minutes while fighting with his demons, his mind and his heart. Let me give him a space to sort his thoughts out. I wouldn’t like it if he knew I was  standing like that outside his door earlier so he shouldn’t know this either. As I turned around and headed to the nearest Starbucks around the corner of my place, I couldn’t help but wonder how beautiful it would have been if he would let me win just this once. If he would just wave the white flag above his dock, I would have welcomed him to my humble harbor and we would be dancing to ‘ Hakuna matata’. But he didn’t. It didn’t occur to my thick-skulled mind that there is another way to dancing Hakuna Matata on the shores of love, I could instead wave the white flag……but I wouldn’t be Fiammetta without my stubborn mind and competitive side……would I? I went in and ordered my Caramel Macchiato, I knew I needed more than coffee to cruise through the cold , lonely night but for now this will do just fine to hit the spot.

“We won!” I whispered to my mind, as I closed my eyes to taste my first sip of drink from the mug. My mind is dancing to Hakuna Matata with a custom-made electro victory dance. But I don’t feel like I am a winner tonight. Is this winning? If we both can be winners by losing each other and if we both  would be losers by wining each other……? Is this the winning kind of losing or the losing kind of winning? I believe this is the right kind of wrong I was telling you about.

Pic: Bethelhem Teame

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4 thoughts on “Him and I: The Right Kind of Wrong”

    1. Dear Rahel, first thank you very much for the continuous support and encouragement. Heartfelt gratitude. Second, you are right, if I’m going to win myself by losing him or if I’m going to lose myself by winning him….then it’s not the right kind of right, so we are better off I guess. But one question, is there ever a right kind of right in this life? I’m afraid not…..gud fela zendro

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