Apparently, I am a married man now.
I met Tawanda when I was fifteen beers high and six feet deep into sin. That’s what my friends tell me, but I lost count somewhere around five, or was it six…or seven?
I like Tawanda very much. A woman whose beauty comes to life whenever my eyelids are barely able to themselves up, I wish I knew what her last name is. Her image is ever so fleeting, but it is a constant I crave as if my life depends on it. Tawanda, my demon in shiny Brazilian hair.
My rollercoaster ride.
I used to be a very scrawny little man. That was three months ago before I met Tawanda. I have seen 1’ns and 11’s that look fatter than I did back then. My family insists on calling me an unrepentant alcoholic. They say that I care more about the bottle than I care about the plate. They should just leave me alone. I play just as hard as I work. I deserve to enjoy my life.
I work an 8 to 5 job that requires the use of at least 95% of my brain cells in their full working capacity. Over the years, I have mastered the art of manipulating my brain into believing it is sober when it’s actually not. So I’m able to perform my duties at work just fine. I was even promoted six months ago. Wait, was it six or four months ago? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I was promoted. End of story.
My dependency on alcohol has become so intense that I strongly believe that I can’t function at my fullest potential unless I have had a drink or two, or three. But whos counting? This is a fact. I think the day I stop drinking would be the day I get fired. True story.
Tall, slender, and a set of two huge boobs that stand at odds with her tiny waist, my hands always have a home on Tawanda. I would love to talk about her rear view in more detail, but she doesn’t have one. There is just this space behind her that’s there to hold her more important front parts in place. She and I once had a deep conversation about this and we both concluded that the share that was supposed to go to her rear ended up in what is now my humble abode. But she is still my Tawanda, my favorite bartender.
So I was telling you about how Tawanda came to be my wife. Three days after our accidental meeting at the club, I came home from work to find her cooking in my kitchen. She was wearing nothing but my t-shirt. Short circuit, brain dead. By the time my eyes were finishing scanning her bare feet and her very inviting long endless legs, I had forgotten to ask her the one very important question: How did she get into my house? See, had I been drunk, I would have had my wits about me.
It was only when I carried her into the bedroom to finish off what we had started cooking in the kitchen that I noticed her massive shoe rack covering one wall of the room. And packed neatly in the far corner was a pile of her now empty suitcases. You can just imagine how quickly my cooking utensils lost their heat. I finally got to ask her the questions I should have asked the moment I walked into the house.
How did you get into my house Tawanda? And are these your things?
She was smiling at me the wholetime I was asking the questions. She moved towards me, surreptitiously tryingto revive the heat I had just lost but just then my eyes landed on the bottleof Jameson I had been drinking earlier that morning before I left for work. It was still on the dresser where I had left it. I quickly rushed over to where it was, took a long gulp from the now very hot contents and I felt sober and strong again. No way she was going to sweet-talk her way into moving to my house that easily.
Tawanda grabbed the bottle from me.
I already mixed the wicked combination you love, come.
She took my hand and led me back into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and handed me a tall glass of my most favorite poison. Only three days after our meeting and she already knew me so well.
You still haven’t answered my question.
I said before paying my respect to the glass in my hand. She had this smile on her face as she watched me down the cocktail.
I spoke to your landlord, she nonchalantly informed me.
I laughed, thinking she was joking. My landlord lived about two hours away from my place. And I mean two hours’drive, on a good traffic day. Not walk, drive. Tawanda didn’t have a car. I would have had no trouble believing her if she told me she simply broke in and made herself comfortable. I would have probably thought it was a thrilling and sexymove on her part rather than creepy. Her boobs gave her enough license to do that sort of thing and get away with it. But she wasn’t kidding.
I told her I was your wife and she-
I can’t remember the rest of her explanation. I had passed out. To this day she has never repeated her response no matter how many times I’ve begged her. She says I drink too much that’s why I can’t remember the most important day of our lives. She even cried whilst saying that. She says she will only tell me the story again if I promise to stay sober for a whole month.
And If I say no? I asked her.
“Then forget about finding out how we got married. You can continue enjoying your beer, I don’t care.”
There’s a perfectly laminated and well-framed certificate on our bedroom wall that says she and me are legally married. I have no idea how that happened. She cooks, she’s bloody fantastic in bed, she lets me drink as much as I want, she doesn’t nag me. Why should I complain?
I’ll worry about the rest when am sober.
For now, cheers.
Side Note: I know this is waaaay shorter than my other stories. However, I thought I should honor the people messaging me and asking when I’ll post the next story or finish up on the pending ones.
I took a break from writing my novel to share this little piece with you guys, It’s not perfect or long I know. Only had an hour to write it. I just wanted to let you know that I am still here!
Please look out for posts about my upcoming book Echoes of Betrayal in the coming weeks. I will be sharing more details soon!
Thanks for Reading!Anishagold