If there were marriageable men out there, i’d shut my laptop and shout “honey, i’m home”.
And he, the marriageable man, would swoop into my den (HQ aka the dining room office), and start to massage my aching neck. As the ache eases, he’d lift me into his arms then lay me on a comfy seat and give my back some tender loving care.
As he does this, he’ll fill me in on his day, tell me that dinner is ready, that he read my shit and it rocks and that he’s booked us tickets to the theatre (Yasiin Bey show or maybe we’ll just go hang at the Afrikan Freedom Station). That he sealed that deal so we can go live in Buenos Aires for as long as we want.
Then he’ll shut up and let me bore him with my tale of how i spent all day tidying my Quickbooks. He won’t judge, coz he knows that even though i have an accountant, i’m a control freak-nyana. Then he’ll let me bore him with my writer blues – and he’ll tell me it’s gonna be alright….
But alas… Ain’t not such man around here. So i’ll just lie in bed, with my aches, and watch another Fresh Prince of Bel-Air rerun.