Moyo looks at me, her lips slightly parted. For once, I’m unable to read her expression. The air feels supercharged, or it might just be the cold and my improper jacket.
“Once again, thank you, Moyo,” I say, trying to read her brown eyes to no avail.
She watches me for a beat before responding, “You’re welcome, Niyi.”
“Great job.”
“Do I at least get a sticker?” Moyo jokes, breaking the tension. “I always have stickers on deck for my clients.”
“They’re kids.”
“All I hear are excuses,” she smirks. We haven’t moved but have somehow moved closer.
“What would satisfy you?”
“Well, what are my options?”
“You know you shouldn’t answer a question with a question,” is all I can say to avoid going even further downhill.
“And what are you gonna do about it?”
The moonlight illuminates half of her face and shadows shield the rest. Almost as if Moyo’s wearing a mask, like she was at the party. The only time we’ve met where she wasn’t aCupid’s Bowclient and I wasn’t Saturn.
I wish I could return to that night. I wish it were that night because I want to kiss her. Right now—staring at her round cheeks, losing their luscious color in the cold, and the coily hair I’d like to dig my hands in to caress her scalp—all I can think about is kissing Moyo.
“Moyo,” I say, breathlessly.
“Niyi,” she responds.
“It’s pretty late. Let’s call it a night.” The words exit through gritted teeth.
“Uh, you’re right.” Moyo clears her throat. “It’s cold and late and it’s bedtime.”
We walk back in silence. There’s not much to say, at least on my end, because every cell in my body is begging to embrace her. In another world I would, but despite Moyo’s pep talk, I’m still Saturn. And with that comes impossible responsibilities that make me the kind of partner I wouldn’t wish on anyone, especially not on Moyo.
“Night, Coach,” she says once we arrive at her door.
“Night, Moyo,” I reply. “We’ll get your second date on the books.”
“Looking forward to it.”
I rock on my heels. “Likewise.”
Moyo looks at me, one hand on her doorknob. “You’re not…”
“Want to make sure you’re inside before I head home,” I explain.
“I’m already at the door.”
“Humor me.”
Moyo rolls her eyes slightly, opening the door. I watch her go in, waiting for the oak door to close, but it opens once more.
She hurries out and hands me the completed questionnaire. “Forgot to hand it in. Don’t want to be a bad client,” she jokes.
“Impossible.” I smile.
“Uh, this is goodnight, for real. Text me when you’re home?” Moyo heads back to her door.
