woman scorned, woman burned ii

14 February 1967

Stanley isn't here. You'd think the bastard would have come up with something contrite, even a clumsy romantic attempt, to apologize. But I arrived home this morning to a cold flat - the hearth had never been lit. Three days ago, I might have cared. But now... I asusme he's with his whore.

It's just as well. I needed the time to myself. To think about things. Last night's things. So I lit the fire and put on the heater, preparing - reluctantly - to wash away last night's smells. Smells of champagne, the stale tobacco from John's lumpy couch, his cologne...

My lips are still soft, even a little sore. He couldn't bring himself to stop kissing me. When was the last time I kissed a man first thing in the morning, with no regard for sour morning breath? It was...delightful. I woke up to the feel, then the sight, of his pale fingers entwined with mine, his other hand playing with my tight curls. He was breathing deeply, even though I could tell he was awake. I smiled before I knew why. I'm not turned off by his paleness or ruddy splotches of skin, perhaps because I've seen him in the summer - he has a deep tan that matches my cocoa complexion quite nicely. Those summers on the yacht, bobbing lazy in the Lagos harbor, a cool breeze calmly wafting away the day's humidity. But for decency's demands, who knows what we may have done and allowed the ocean to wash away?

Our love was frantic last night. Desperate. We clawed at each other, as though it were our last chance. This morning, we took our time. It was...perfect.

So why do I feel so guilty?

Since I left John, beneath the exhilaration, I have felt slightly dirty, unwelcome, even to myself. I'm so angry for feeling this way. Am I not justified? Can I not enjoy the pleasure of finally feeling wanted by someone?? I was wronged! A man marries you, takes you away from your home, where you have never wanted for anything, where you knew where to go when you needed a yard of fabric, a juicy piece of gossip, a hot bowl of fish soup - he marries you, and brings you to his home, over rivers, seas, desert dunes. He has been estranged from his family for years; they hear about you, the native bride, and find more reason to maintain their icy distance. My responsibility to fit in, my duty to ignore the whispers, the ignored invitations to our dinner parties, with grace and dignity. I thought I left my happiness in Nigeria...now I think my happiness may be with John.

Maybe. I told him I'd see him again, though we never agreed when. And though we both know we shouldn't.

The bed wasn't slept in. Where could he have gone? What will I do when he gets back? What will I do if he doesn't?

I will draw a bath and inhale last night's smells one last time. And let tomorrow come and handle itself.



9 March 1967

I'm pregnant.