“How do we rewrite the stars?” She asked.
“Simple, do not ask me to stay.”
People say I’m foolish, others say I'm too dumb. But I've always thought of myself as a free soul.
The escapades had burst past the seams of silk and masquerades. And the weekend revels did little to stay the madness, and retreating from the room, I felt I’d had enough of Monday mornings seasoned in sell-loathing.
I did not look back at the figure sprawled lazily in bed as I stepped over the threshold, opened the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
Adjusting my collar, I couldn’t recognize the staring at me in the mirror as I rode the lift down.
After the first encounter at Kot’s, we didn’t exchange numbers, but the masks did come off, and some more.
Weeks passed, but the ash lily dress, the nimble body beneath it, and the taste of red in her mouth stuck with me.
“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice had called as I walked past the booth after picking my tag for the show, ‘The Inglorious,’ at Alliance Francaise.
“What are the odds?” I shrugged, walking into the open arms.
It was Darcie, kilometers away from Malindi.
“You look good,” I said, stepping back.
“I always look good.”
“Still humble, I see.”
“How would you know?” She retorted.
“Charming,” I replied, flustered.
I held out my arm to her, and she took it. We walked into the theater as the lights went out and made our way to the top gallery.
Perched high like a quiet nest overlooking a sea of drama, the gallery was a world of its own, overlooking the large auditorium. From this lofty vantage point, we could see everything: the rows of plush red seats fanned out in perfect symmetry, the chandeliers glowing like suspended constellations, and the grand velvet curtain hanging in still anticipation.
The gallery seats, aged but dignified, bore the soft creak of history with every shift, their wooden arms cool and polished by years of eager hands. Below, the stage resembled a living canvas, framed in gold and alive with color and motion. As the orchestra tuned and the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the room.
“The Inglorious,” read the projector, then darkness.
Then a single spotlight pierced the darkness to follow the lead actor, a glowing circle of intensity, writhing and turning in the air as if the world had fallen away. With every step she made, sound followed like a secret thread.
The soft rustle of costumes, the distant toll of a bell, the sharp clap of thunder, each effect timed to perfection. I knew it was a good production before a line was uttered.
The music rose like a heartbeat beneath the dialogue, and the audience hung onto the words, enchanted by the poetry.
“Though I desire, I never thought we’d meet again, let alone at a theatre show in Nairobi,” she had ventured when we took a snack break. Little did I know that would be the last of the show for me.
