If I Let Go

7

"Salina Sharon Zungu," Mark says tracing invisible patterns on my arm three earth shattering orgasms later.

It's Saturday evening and I am in Mark's house or to be honest, his bed. As soon as he let us in, we tore each others clothes and he carried me upstairs to his bedroom where we made love.

"A beautiful name." I look up at him and smile. He is now admiring my nails in the light from the partly open bedroom windows. It's mid November and the sunsets are unusually longer.

" And beautiful nails too."

"Thank you,"  I giggle like a fifteen year old. I never giggle, what the hell is happening to me?

"Can I make you something to eat?" Mark says suddenly. His face is serious. "I was hoping to convince you to spend the night."

I stop to consider. I don't have any plans for tomorrow except to attend my friend Emmy's baby shower at around two. I shopped for groceries last weekend and thank fully I am done with essays. But I am unable to say yes. Perhaps its the nagging feeling that Mark is only being polite to make our situation less complicated than it already is.

It's clear as day that we do not have a future together and I have known that from the moment he said his name that fateful evening in the second floor classroom. However, I admit it still stings. I am not usually a party to a no-strings-attached arrangement and realizing this can only be termed as a situationship , I know with unwavering certainty that the right thing would be to leave while I still have some dignity left.

While I still can.

"Next time, I have plans with Melissa. She will kill me if I am a second late," I say and disentangle myself from his arms to get dressed. To add a dramatic effect, I make a big show of acting surprised at the time on the bedside clock. It's a quarter past six.

"I am supposed to meet her at eight."

"Are you okay?"  Mark asks and I don't miss the hint of doubt in his voice. I have come to learn he is oddly observant and small facts like a slight change of mood wouldn't slip his notice.

"Everything is perfect."  I smile and poke his chest playfully.

" Are you sure?"  Mark persists and I don't meet his eyes. I bite my bottom lip and pick my purple off shoulder top from the floor.

"Come on, did I do something wrong?" He asks again when we are in my neighborhood. Mark is driving me home.

I had insisted that an Uber would be fine but he did not want to hear any of it. The fifteen minutes drive was filled with awkward silence and I scrolled through my phone to avoid questioning glances from Mark.

"Not exactly," I say.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mark stops the car and faces me.

" It's my fault and anyway, you got what you wanted," I reply attempting to sound detached.  "I think we should stop this...whatever this is."