“Thank you! Wasn’t sure, couldn’t read your face.” He rubs the back of his neck.
Like Niyi, my mind supplies. No matter how hard I’ve tried to shake away the thoughts, they keep coming back, like a hydra.
“Sorry. I’ve been told I have a very unreadable resting face. It’s not you,” I say.
“Hopefully, with time, I’ll get to read you better.”
I pretend not to hear him as he dials the radio to the movie’s frequency, and the countdown begins.
“Wait, before I forget, how’s yourCupid’s Bowexperience been?” I ask, wanting to end our pre-movie conversation with the present, not talking about future dates.
Maxwell’s gone all out but I’m not in love with it. At the start, I thought this—he—might be it, but now I’m not sure. The worst part is I can’t pinpoint why.
“After the mixer, it took a while to match me, so you’re my first date,” he says with an infectious, megawatt smile. I know I’m meant to smile, but it gives me pause.
His first? Oh.
He places his hand close to mine, near the gearshift. Not open to hand-holding and not wanting to be suspicious, I reach for a pack of sour gummies, taking my hand away from his.
He begins to say something else, but the countdown ends, and the title card introduces Alfred Hitchcock’sPsycho.
Saved by the slasher.
21Moyo
“DID YOU LIKE THE MOVIE?” ANJIE ASKS AS SHE PUTS TOGETHERa special, post-Thanksgiving Day brunch. She only treats us to “soup and swallow” for brunch when it’s a special occasion or after significant time apart. With Sewa returning from visiting family in DC, it counts.
“I did,” I respond.
“And he was nice?” Sewa follows up.
“Yeah, he was respectful and didn’t try any nonsense.”
“Moyo,” Anjie says above the sound of rummaging through cabinets, “he doesn’t sound boring to me. Abi Sewa?” She looks at our copper-haired friend, who for the first time in weeks, looks refreshed.
“Someone that showed you a whole planet. I don’t know if boring is a word I’d use,” Sewa agrees.
“Exactly. I don’t get the problem,” Anjie reiterates.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This response is not entirely unexpected because, even while thinking about it and retelling the story, I have to admit that it was an okay time. It wasn’t a knock-your-socks-off, run-to-gossip-with-your-friends kind of date. But it was all things I should’ve been obsessed with. That diner—when I remember the name—is a perfect girls’ night option. The drive-in would be fun to revisit on a solo movie date.I enjoyed both things, but there’s something about Maxwell that didn’t click.
Anjie reappears, holding a tray with three bowls, and Sewa and I watch intently, waiting to see the food combo she’s blessed us with this time. Anjie sets the tray down, and the yellow soup with green flecks and various cuts of meat stares back at us. My stomach grumbles in approval. It’s been a while since Anjie made ègúsí and eba, but it smells perfect. The earthy, roasted-nut scent wafts into my nose, and my stomach roars to life.
Before we dig in, Anjie dips back into the kitchen to retrieve a bowl of water to cleanse our hands. We each wet our right hands and dig into the eba Anjie made to accompany the soup.
Mid-scoop, Anjie says, “You still haven’t shared the problem with this Maxwell.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Was it the driving distance?” Sewa inquires.
The thirty-minute drive wasn’t a nuisance, and I respond accordingly.
“The diner food wasn’t good?” Anjie prods.
“The fries were regular fries,” I begin, and Anjie is about to leap. “But! Their milkshakes were superb. Best I’ve ever had.”
“They’re lucky I don’t make milkshakes,” she grumbles.
“You’re so unserious,” Sewa cackles. “You can’t even drink them, professional Pepto Bismol consumer.”
