The First of Many

They would always both remember their first time. But in different ways. He would mostly remember the details. Like how…

Damilola

November 13, 2014

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They would always both remember their first time. But in different ways.

He would mostly remember the details. Like how taking off her clothes felt like a slow unveiling of himself, a revealing of parts of his soul that he never even knew were there. He would remember how she smelled like rain and flowers and left him wondering if she was even real.

He would never forget how when she finally stood naked before him, her dark skin flowing like runny chocolate someone had left under the sun for too long, he had started to cry. He was a wise man, you see, wise enough to know that miracles do not happen often, wise enough to pour out a grateful libation of tears to the gods that had sent her his way.

For her own part, she would remember the joy in his eyes as he saw her naked for the first time. She was standing in a puddle of white lace and chiffon. She saw no tears in those eyes, only unbridled joy and so she prayed silently to heaven for him to always look at her this way.

She remembered knowing for sure that he was the one when as he moved over her, he sought out her hand. It was no big deal except that it was. She had the hand away from the rest of her body like it was a useless thing; unable to contribute to the magic that was happening, yet longing to not be forgotten, yet pleading to always have and to always hold.

He found her hand as they danced the dance of love and did not let it go, and for the first time since she met him, she found that she could close her eyes and imagine a lifetime with him.

It was the first of many throughout a marriage that would last a long, long time. Maybe that was why it stood out in their memories; because it was the first and no one ever forgets their first time. Or maybe because she would conceive their first and only child that night. Or maybe because that first time was a promise that would never fail as the years passed.

I don’t know. I am only a storyteller using her imagination. So today when I saw a wrinkled old man holding on tightly to the palsied hand of an equally old woman with perfect cheekbones as they waited in line to pick up their permanent voter’s card, I did my job and told their story.

 

Song of the day: Train – If It’s Love

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