Anjie huffs. “Lactose intolerance is a real thing.”
“It wasn’t the food,” I say, still laughing a little. “I’ll take you guys to the diner once I remember the name. It was—” I pause, words evading me as I try to articulate my issues with Maxwell. Then a lightbulb goes off in my head. “Okay, I’m explaining why the original Scream is the best one, yeah?”
They both nod. Red palm oil from the soup coats their fingers, creating a stark contrast to the white balls of eba halfway to their mouths.
“And he agreed. He simply agreed,” I proclaim.
After that first incident, on our walk back to the diner after the movie, we shared our differing opinions onPsycho. Every time, regardless of whatI said, Maxwell readily agreed with my rebuttals. I’m always right, and I admire when people know that. But having it just accepted felt like a cheap date cop-out.
Opinions always differ and I love hearing varying perspectives. With nonconfrontational Maxwell, as sweet as he was, it felt like he was saying things to appease me. It made me wonder, did I get through to him with my crystal-clear opinions, or was he looking through a crystal ball and agreeing with whatever he thought I wanted him to say?
Anjie pivots towards me and touches my hand with her clean one. “I’m still lost, darling.”
I draw a deep breath. “There wasn’t any chemistry.”
Anjie furiously shakes her head. “If it was chemistry, you would’ve said that.”
“I think I get her point,” Sewa says, coming to my rescue. “You know, Moyo likes to fight—”
“Ignore her,” I say.
Sewa kisses her teeth. “As I was saying, she likes to fight. Therefore, this guy going with her every whim must’ve been exhausting. Poor Moyo, finding a man who listens and admits where he’s wrong.” Her sarcasm could fill a dam.
“It’s not the admitting part. You guys aren’t understanding me,” I lament.
“It’s the mental battle—the engagement—the discussion you like,” Anjie summarizes.
“Exactly!”
“We got you, babe. We just like to have a little laugh,” Sewa says.
I muster as much faux solemnity as I can. “One day, by the grace of God, you guys will become serious.”
“You first,” they say simultaneously, and then high-five. Despite the fact that I’ve known Anjie longer, she and Sewa have this incredible ability to gang up on me as if they share one brain cell—sometimes, I fear they do.
“As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,” I say, giving Sewa a pointed look, “I didn’t get the intellectual stimulation I like. So, to me, there was no spark.” I shrug.
Anjie stands up dramatically. “Breaking news, a Yoruba woman wants a man to be able to fight her before she can fall in love with him.”
“I’m going to eat in my room,” I say, lifting my bowl.
Their whines and objections make me sit back down.
Sewa says, “It’s okay. We get it. Everyone has a thing that gets them going. Yours is needing to get into a verbal grudge match, and that’s okay.”
“I’m never disclosing anything ever again,” I mumble.
“See you next week for Moyo’s date rundown?” Anjie asks Sewa, and she nods dramatically, causing braids to fly in her face. She sputters when one sticks to her glossed lip, and I cackle as I watch her try to dislodge it without using her hands. My enemies always experience turmoil.
“When are you going to tell the app?” Anjie asks when things quiet down.
The question catches me as I’m halfway through conquering a piece of meat, so I put up a finger. “Already did. I also told Maxwell I didn’t feel the same when he asked for a second date,” I respond after chewing.
“Oh, you weren’t feeling him at all,” Sewa says.
I almost feel bad, but after writing down the things I want in a partner, it was clear that, even though Maxwell ticked most of the boxes, he would never scratch the itch I desperately need, and that’s okay. He’s a great, thoughtful guy who’ll find someone more his speed.
“All they have to do is find someone you can spar with who’ll eventually give in. Piece of cake,” Anjie says.
