On the day I lost my job, I went back home to a tantalizing thirty-minute-long sex.
I do not understand why, but after I read the notice of termination, my heart smiled. It probably was the only part of my body that seemed not to comprehend what was going on. As much as there was a sadness and fear that threatened to show on my face, my heart kept smiling.
While stashing the notice into my bag, I fished out my phone and texted my husband:
“Is your dick still intact?”
“What? Why? Did you send someone to rip it off?”
I chuckled at my corner desk. You would have thought the termination notice was a salary increment notice. Slowly, the chuckle turned into a whiff, into a smile and before I knew it, I was clutching my stomach as I rolled with laughter.
Of course, there were tears. So much of them I lost my handkerchief in the process. My mascara ran down my face. I looked like someone who was stuck in the middle of a dense forest in the night.
I do not know which was sadder. Losing my job. Laughing uncontrollably. My colleagues looking my way with pity written all over their faces. Or the fact that my husband thought I could possibly send someone to rip off his penis.
Still, I left.
I remember my boss’ voice in my ear like a distant memory. Like the last kicks of a dying horse. Or the last breathes of air of a drowning man. Or the last plate of food for a broke man.
“It has been a hard decision, Tamara. But I had to do what I had to do.”
“Maybe, in future, when another opportunity arises, I will be sure to consider you.”
“I will also forward your name to few people I know. Maybe something will come up.”
I do not really remember what I was feeling right at that moment. All I know is I was not angry. Neither disappointed nor sad. If I was in rage, I wouldn’t have been as patient with my boss as I was. I wouldn’t have let them walk the two hundred metres with me to the bus stop.
If I was angry, I would not have let them blurb all the nothingness into my ears.
I may not remember how I felt on that evening, but I know there was a warm wetness in between my legs. It did not help that I was in a dress on that day, and I feared whatever it was would roll down my thighs onto my legs.
I remember the familiar throb in my clitoris when I sat inside the bus, that I immediately returned my husband’s text.
“It seems your dick is the only thing I have managed to hold down for a long period of time. See you at home.”
He was lying in bed casually when I walked in. Throwing my bag on the floor, I dropped my coat and threw my whole body on him.
That evening, I cried my heart out. I cried for all the nights I stayed awake striving to beat deadlines. I cried for the sore feet I got from running around in high heels, licking my clients’ asses. I cried for the days I slept in my corner, my feet a feast for the mosquitoes, as I strived to make presentations.
I cried for the fear of the unknown.
I cried for letting go of myself. For putting myself second. For taking up the wrong sacrifices. For beating myself too much for things that were beyond my jurisdiction. For taking up too much baggage than I could handle.
That evening, I cried for the person I had transformed into; broken, dependent, heartbroken, lost.
He lay there expressionless, stroking my back and hair. He did not ask why I cried. Neither did he try to ask me to stop. He stroked, and stroked then stroked. And when I was finally done with the crying, I felt his penis, hard as a rock, pressing against my abdomen.
Swiftly, he pushed me onto the bed, raised my dress up to my waist as I stepped out of my panties.
As he penetrated, I let out a soft moan and held onto his back. Thrust by thrust, rhythm slowly turning into music, he lifted my legs up as his left hand found its way onto my right breast.
Tenderness. Wetness. Ecstasy.
Thrust. I could feel his breathe hot in the air. I could feel the throbbing in my clitoris turn into a billion shattered nerve endings. I could see, in the mild darkness, his face contort with visible pleasure.
Then, a sudden stop.
“There is blood!! A LOT of it!!” He shouted, wanting to pull out.
I held onto his butt, and pushed him further inside.
“There is blood coming out of you!!”
“I know.” I replied, calmly.
“Are you okay?”
“Come on, it is just blood.”
“We will stain the sheets.”
“We will lose them then.”
After thirty minutes of toes curling, legs shaking, sweat dripping, nails burrowing into skin, teeth clenching and zero distance between our bodies, we fell apart with deep sighs.
“I lost my job, today.”
He turned around to face me. There was sadness in his eyes, but there was hope written all over his face. He pulled me closer and placed my head on his chest.
“You can cry. It is okay. Things are meant to be lost. Because there will always be other ones. Better ones, maybe. But if others don’t come our way, we try again.”
It was the first time we had had sex while I was on my period. We slept in the bloody mess that night, with nothing on my mind apart from the gift of finding a gentle home in one person. I dreamt of flowers and birds. Rockets and clouds. Sweetness and merry. Warmth and divinity.
When I woke up, there was a warm lavender bath set up for me, and coffee brewing from the kitchen. There he was, standing at our bedroom door with flowers in his hands.
“We start all over again. This time, with happiness.”
I threw the bedsheets away later that morning. It was painful letting go of them. But there was too much blood on them, and I didn’t have the patience or strength to scrub it off. Wrapping them up, I learnt one thing:
When things get messy, let them go. When things threaten your peace and drain your strength, they are meant for the gutter. When you find yourself giving too much time to things that do not build you in any way, they are certainly not meant for you. If you think of things and it brings you anxiety, or fear, or anger, let them go.
There will, always, be better things to do. There will, always, be better people to bond with.
If not, it is okay to start all over again.