Lucifer’s favourite Italian restaurant in Nairobi was the Mediterraneo at the Junction. I didn’t like the food there very much but he did. Lucifer is more of a culinary adventurer than I am so he pretty much chomped his way through the rather extensive menu. I am a creature of habit and so I confined myself to my staples, risotto with porcini and the vegetarian lasagna.
The last time we went to dinner there, he wore an olive green top, one of these t-shirts masquerading as sweaters. It wasn’t the chilliest of Nairobi nights but he had a grey scarf knotted around his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a while and I ran my fingers over his grey stubble thinking he looked more handsome than usual. I can’t remember what I wore or what we ate except the strawberries and mascarpone for dessert which I fed him with the long spoon while his eyes bored into mine. I remember the industrial amounts of voltage that coursed through my veins when he licked the cream off my lips. Later that night, he kissed me like he’d never kissed me before. He siphoned out my soul and when he broke away, I wondered whether he had felt as I had. I didn’t dare ask because a no, even if said in jest, would have been more than my heart could bear.
Two weeks ago, I told him I was moving on. I lied.
