Aided by the rows led lights on each side of the vanity, your reflection was well lightened. Manda stretched and a threatening sound ran up her spine. She bent again and placed the eye pencil on the other brow. The previous one took time, but after what felt like forty minutes minutes, (It wasn't that much,) she stepped back and looked you up. Slight nod of affirmation. She brushed light foundation on your face and when she smeared the black lipstick, you romanced your lips without being told what to do. For clothes, you wore a black crop-top that exposed your hollowed navel. The jean skirt showed a considerable amount of thighs. You tugged at the hem. The only difference was that she packed your hair into a bun behind.

There was something particular about the sky that night. The stars were scanty and the moon hid behind a cloud. You did not need a forecaster to tell that it would rain. The breeze was cold and in it, drizzle floated. Even the panelled light over head seemed faulty as most of them emitted nothing. You relished the shade anytime you strode under a faulty light only to approach another light ahead.

Same time, the same place. You pressed the button beside your phone and the screen materialized. The time was: 8:11 P.M. You couldn't pinpoint the exact time, but it was around this hour. When you strode past Mrs Aforlarin house, the last house before the recreational centre, you saw a silhouette behind the curtain. It was of two people merged together, swaying, as if to a slow music. From where you stood, you heard nothing, only saw the silhouette behind the curtain. The thought of growing old rushed into your mind and freaked the hell out of you. Would you still be in love at seventy-seven like the Aforlarins? They had no kids.

The street lamp outside their house was among the faulty ones. Without fear of detection, You stood in the shade and watched them for long minutes. They did nothing but sway gently.

Is one ever truly happy? Were the Aforlarins truly happy? What would have prompted such action-an action as intimate as that? You walked away at a slower pace. What is happiness? Lightening ran across the sky and a low rumble of thunder followed. Was God trying to say something?

The recreational centre was shaded in the night. The fancy bulb above the poles emitted nothing. The only evidence of light was the backlight of a phone held by the person perched on a swing. You knew it was him. His red T-shirt fought the dark to be noticeable from his distance.

You hopped over the short fence and your feet sank into the soft sand. Now, you thanked God you didn't wear the heels that Manda retrieved from her wardrobe. Your crooks were better for the sand. You saw that he wore crooks too; the same colour as yours. You had noticed, long before then, that your crooks were identical. It had been after you saw his that you bought yours.

"You know," He stood up, "When I saw you yesterday, I almost thought you stole my crooks but the size said otherwise." He held your waist.

"I have mine." You mirrored his smile. For one, he felt nervous. Too nervous to be John. Why can't he not keep eyes contact? Why has he not complemented your make up? To shield his nervous face, he hugged you. His frame towered over you, so he leaned. After a minute or so, he drew out enough to place a kiss on your forehead. Your lips, you sensed, he reversed for later; for the special thing.

"Come," He held your wrist and led you towards the pool. The gate was locked but he had a bunch of keys. He fumbled and found the one he inserted. The heavy padlock clicked open. The pool held no water and you walked right beside it.

He guided you around the pool and headed for a bungalow by the side. The door was opened and he gained entrance, pulling you in.

The room was dark but, you had been in the locker room to know that neatly folded towels stacked in a shelf and the other parts of the walls were rowed with lockers.

"How did you..."

"Get the key? I have my ways." He smiled.

He still held your wrist. The other one trailed on the wall and flipped a switch. The room materialized in a glow of dim red and you saw a blanket laid out by the side, a basket on it.

"It doesn't look like much, but I have some good movie on the laptop too."

He allowed you to lower to the ground first. The blanket was fluffy and padded the floor well. He removed one soft drink from the basket and passed it to you. You received it with clammy hands. He broke the laptop open and turned it on. While it booted, the silence became awkward. He broke it and said, "I like that you put in effort to look nice."

You blushed. Why was his voice pitched like that? Was he nervous about doing it? Maybe it was too early.

As time went on, different questions swirled in your head. The movie played for itself and your meatpie laid untouched beside you. His gaze fixed on the movie and the explosions reflected in his eyes. After the movie though, he said, "That alien's head looks like Mr Mangaro's head." You laughed because there was truth in it.

The mood maintained that enthusiasm. Topics got dissected, laughter echoed, silence got share and eyes stared.

He reached out to touch your cheek and you tilted in a way that trapped his hand between your shoulder and cheek.

"And the black lipstick looks bold. I like it." The nervousness was back.

"Are you okay?" You finally asked.

"Yes." He broke his gaze.

You nodded, avoiding to spoil the mood with a sympathetic conversation. Some other things were still unsettled.

"Do you love me better now?" You said, instead.

"Eh..."

"You said that the feeling would gradually develop." You also reminded him of his promise of making this the best love story ever.

"But today is not about that." He placed his hand on your thighs and gently romanced it. Another shared silence. It was not as if you were avoiding a kiss. You knew what it was about, and kissing-starting the whole process-was something you weren't ready for. Was that a second thought?

You closed your eyes and kissed him back. Your heart drummed hard, and he probably felt it when he cupped your chest.

He broke out of your grip, stood up and walked to the wall. He flipped the switch and darkness swallowed the room, only for it materialize again in bright florescent. You shielded your eyes from the bright light.

"Why the bright light?"

"Nothing." he lowered to the floor. There were lots of eyes locking, a lot of unsaid thought, before he slowly joined lips. Current passed your body when his hand trailed under your skirt and touched you.

It was painful but not as much as you expected, which made it better. At no point was it pleasurable, not even when you felt him jerking. Did he just cum inside you? His weight fell beside you and you heard his extended breaths. You backed him, and wept. Silent tears. Not for him, no, not for him.

†

You saw it was Seven A.M. on your phone. Sunday. Like before, he was sleeping when you left. You had spent few minutes to observe him, his long lashes and dark lips. He drooled.

You told Manda how everything played.

"Blindfold?"

"Yes."

"Wow, you guys went deep. Some fifty shade of grey stuff."

All you did was smile.

"Are you seeing him today?"

You had called him but he did not pick. "Probably."

†

Monday, Seven A.M, everything was back to default. You brushed your teeth, showered, and wore your uniform. You tried his number about five times before you left the room, but it was not reachable. Inside Dad's car, you tried again.

"What is the problem?" Dad asked, you met his eyes through the rearview. He wore a blue tie over a white shirt. He eyes went back to the road.

"Nothing."

His gaze raised to the mirror again but went back to the road. His both hands were on steering. Davido's Aye played on low.

You got to school and moved straight to your class, head down. As you paced, you blocked the usual laughs that always echoed around you. And Ignored the slaps to the head. You stood at the door and roamed your eyes around the class. No John. He wasn't in his circle of friends. Mission aborted, you turned back and ran to your sanctuary; the edge of the kindergarten library, obscured by towering shelves. You propped on a wall and huddled your legs. Maybe, John's mother had killed him and stuffed him into her boot. You had seen enough to think that. Should you call for awareness to what he was passing through at home?

No answer came to you. You elapsed the day there, skimming through books. In one book, you read that the world is a checker, an alternate of white and black, good and evil, bully and bullied.