Re: Sundae on Sunday

Trust,

You really went back and opened the archives.

5am.

12pm.

4pm.

11pm.

Did you notice how the intervals between those times gives 747? 

Which is it? The Boeing or the Angel Number?

At this point, I’m beginning to suspect you don't miss me.

You miss having evidence.

Because how do you remember the exact time I called you five days in a row?

I don't even remember calling myself five days in a row.

And before you start smiling,

I still deny the allegations.

All of them.

Especially the 5am ones.

'Cos you know that's when my alarm comes alive.

Maybe Time was doing what Time has always done to us.

Remember how this started?

A Minute to Midnight.

Then A Minute Past Midnight.

Then somehow, we kept moving forward while pretending we were moving on.

Now you're telling me about 5am.

Trust, this is how Time traps people.

It starts with a minute.

Then another.

Then you're sitting at 3:20am wondering how somebody who was supposed to be in your past keeps finding new addresses in your present.

But I don't trust Time.

Time has never been loyal to me.

It keeps moving,

but somehow keeps leaving you behind.

Very suspicious.

Then you brought flowers into the matter.

Please.

Don't weaponise flowers against me.

I already told you:

Women are like roses.

Beautiful things can still grow around thorns.

And sometimes the thorns are not there to hurt you.

They're there to remind you to handle the rose properly.

So if I sent flowers,

perhaps I was simply respecting botany.

Let's not turn horticulture into a romance culture.

As for your gateman...

Please leave that man out of this.

That man is as confused as Odumeje and the Business of Spiritual Entertainment.

One minute he's telling you I called.

The next minute he's reporting my lunch questions.

Tomorrow he'll probably be shouting: Indaboski or Kabush Kadash.... all Jargons. 

I don't trust that man.

He has become an unreliable narrator in a story he wasn't supposed to be reading.

But you know what?

Maybe we should stop.

Not the conversation.

The decoding.

Because somewhere between your evidence and my denials,

we've become very good at talking around what we're actually trying to say.

You say you miss me.

I tell you your memory is very active.

You say I keep calling.

I blame coincidence.

You say flowers.

I say roses.

You say the gate man knows.

I say the man needs supervision.

And somehow,

we're still here.

So here's my counter-offer.

No confession.

No dramatic promises.

No deciding what we are before we've even sat down.

Just a Saturday.

A park.

A walk.

Something cold to drink.

You can bring your questions.

I'll bring my denials.

We can argue about Time.

You can defend your gate man.

I'll continue blaming Time

We can talk about the rose,

the thorns,

the things we got wrong,

the things we never said,

and maybe the things we're both pretending don't still matter.

I'm not promising you an answer.

I'm promising you a conversation.

And maybe that's enough for now.

Because some things shouldn't be settled over a screen.

Some stories need two people sitting opposite each other,

with nowhere to hide behind punctuation.

So yes, Trust.

I still have Trust issues.

But......

Let's meet in the park, give Time a chance to sit still for once, and see if our hearts would do the ticking.

I'm Sat this Saturday.