There was a sudden gust that tousled the ends of her locs, not quite sure which direction to blow them in. She grabbed them into a bunch, one hand holding them hostage as the other tugged the elastic band off her wrist to bind them into a rough ponytail. He hated when she did that.
“Every strand is alive,” he would say, “Treat them with respect.”
“When respect is something I can only dream of in my life, is respecting the stray strands on my head the greatest of my concerns?”
“If respect does not stem from the seemingly insignificant part of you, how so will it be for the most prominent? And remember, those stray strands are intertwined and woven to form the glory of your crown.”
He was always right – always saying the right thing. And it was because of this that she chose to ignore his calls. Hearing him did the opposite of breeding self-love and self-worth; it made her forever resentful that he could imagine life to be as simple as the words that tumbled from his lips, as easy as the movements of his tongue as he breathed each syllable. Life was far from being such, and he reminded her in too vivid a manner.
The further she ran, the faster he ran behind her. The more she camouflaged herself, the better he became at being the very thing she was trying to blend in with. The deeper she hid, the more skillful he became at discovering her hideout. And while his smile beamed brighter than the naked moon on a frightfully dark night, and love evaporated from his pores from the sheer warmth of his heart, and his eyes saw nothing but goodness in everything it was laid upon, she was suffocated by it all, so she ran further and hid deeper, afraid that his goodness might be the very thing that would flip her heart to love him.
© The Londoner, June 2011