I’m a connoisseur of delicious food, so an equally exquisite drink is never far away.
“What’s your favorite wine?” I ask.
Niyi answers almost instantly, “I love a Cabernet. You?”
“I have a Tignanello at home I’ve been saving. Should’ve guessed you were a fellow red wine fan, seeing as I knew you were a man of taste.”
“That obvious?”
“Unfortunately, so.”
“What gave it away?” Niyi asks.
“You—” I’m about to mention his open-buttoned, buttery shirt from the dance. From what I felt as our chests pressed together, I know it’s an expensive, well-made shirt. But mentioning that would be delving too deep into flirtation. The beautiful art pieces that night return to mind, helping me pivot. “You helped with the party pieces, right?”
“Indeed. My friend, Aaron, owns an amazing art studio. He was contracted to create some sculptures for the event. He asked me to create some clay vases and whatnot.”
“What else do you make?” Fascination gives life to my words.
“We should really get back to you. There are a lot of questions,” he says softly, his shoulders tensing.
“C’mon, humor me. Remember we’re having a conversation. I want to get to know you too,” I remind him.
“Mugs, bowls, plates, the cross between a bowl and a plate—”
“The perfect eating vessel,” I interject.
“Exactly,” Niyi snickers, and it feels like a mini reward. “And honestly, anything else. I’ve been at it for a while, so experimentation is a big part of the process.”
“Must be nice to make things with your hands.”
“It is. As I’m sure it’s nice to help people.”
“Indeed. Have you ever thought about selling some of your artwork?” I ask.
He brushes this aside. “I’m not a real artist, so no, never.”
“According to who?”
“I already have a job,” Niyi replies. “Don’t have time to make a career out of a hobby. Now, can we go back to you, so I can do my current job?”
“Fine…what’s next in your master list of personal questions?” I ask.
The air around us lightens as the conversation flows. We end up talking about everything butCupid’s Bow-related topics. Niyi isn’t a horror fan, but he’s really into crime dramas. Where my favorite Nigerian food is rice and ayamase, he is obsessed with asaro—something I don’t eat because of texture.
We talk, laugh, rinse and repeat until a server tells us closing time is near. The sun’s soft orange glow filters in, alerting us to how late it is.
“Don’t forget to drop any cups and plates on your way out,” the brunette says. She smiles, but the unspoken message is clear. We’re the last two customers in the cafe. When did everyone clear out?
“Of course. We’ll be right out,” Niyi says. We toss our empty cups in the trash as we leave.
“Have a great night,” I say to the staff as I slip on my coat.
Niyi walks ahead of me and opens the door.
“You know you don’t have to do that?” I say as we wander around the block. No destination in mind, only the desire to continue our conversation.
“I know. I do it ’cause I want to. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
