First Date Diary- Broken glass

“Don’t cry over spilt milk”, they say. To be fair, I did not cry immediately but knelt on the floor and tried to save as much milk as possible. Sometime later, surrounded by dirty rags and no milk, I cried.

“Don’t try to fix broken glass, you might hurt yourself”, they say. I remembered this when the first tiny shard pierced my skin. Or was it the second, or the third? I looked down at my bloody hands through blurry eyes. Blurry? I had been crying and I did not even know. All I remembered was that my precious, priceless flower vase had accidentally fallen to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Instinctively, I had fallen to the ground and tried gathering the pieces together with my bare hands.

“Hi, I have been trying to get your attention for a long time now. That must be one interesting book...”

“Well, why didn’t you give up?” I rudely thought as I reluctantly looked up to see who dared to disturb my afternoon read. I had finally discovered the perfect library after combing Abuja for three solid weeks and spending ridiculous amounts of money on overpriced food and ‘free’ but non-existent wifi. This library was my dream come true and I was finally able to spend time alone in a quiet environment with cheap howbeit tasteless food. Now this?

“I’m really sorry to bother you but I need to charge my phone and the only free port is beside you so I was wondering...” He looked expectantly at me.

“See format. Well, I am not going to make conversation or small talk or whatever it is called these days. See me see wahala, I am in the quiet room but trust some people to be disobedient.” I angrily thought.

I nodded at him absentmindedly and he took the seat opposite me. Nothing was going to distract me from the crazy Ajanaku and her antics.

I should have kept my promise; I should not have replied when he said “Hello, would you like a glass of Chapman?” I should have ignored him when he asked “Can you tell me about the book you are reading?”

But I didn’t. Before long, I was talking almost nonstop about Efuru, Ajanaku and how Flora Nwapa was such an exceptionally talented writer, while sipping watered down (but cheap) Chapman.

We became fast friends. We shared similar hobbies, loved the same types of books and when I asked him a question, he answered exactly the same way I would have answered.

It was weird.

It was wonderful.

And when he said “I love you” a week later, it felt like he said it six days too late.

“Slow down baby, you’re going too fast. You got your hands in the air with your feet on the gas... You need to slow down baby” India Arie

People say I have a selective memory and only remember what I choose to remember. Maybe that’s my protective mechanism, the only way I can deal with the hurt. But I really cannot remember the events that led up to that evening.

The evening I realised that he had not said “I love you” in a while.

The evening I nudged him playfully to ask what was wrong. I thought he would say “baby, I am fine; I am just stressed at work”.

The evening I did not expect him to say, “Baby, I don’t think this is working”.

The evening I replied, “But you love me”.

And he said, “I love you, but sometimes love is not enough”.

The evening I did not cry.

As I sat surrounded by the shards of glass, relics of my once very beautiful flower vase, I realised that it is as they say, “It is the broken glass that reflects the most light”.

I may not be able to put this vase back together, but I can buy another vase and fill it with beautiful flowers.

I can buy another bottle of milk.

And I most certainly will fall in love again.

That was when I realised that finding another perfect library might be the most difficult task of them all.

But I can start my own.

 “He heals the brokenhearted and bandages their wounds” Psalm 147:3

Image: https://pixabay.com/en/stone-glass-broken-174038/