Ladies, Gentlemen, and those of us yet to make up our minds, welcome to Quille’s Bites! These are short, short tales that will be posted in ‘bites’ and this is the first bit of the first. They will be FF/MM romances, maybe with a paranormal twist ’cause I’m addicted! I would like honest reviews and critiques on how to get better before I throw myself into lengthier work, so do read and please, leave a comment and let’s talk. Now, you already know I’m horrible with summaries so kindly accept what you get. Most importantly, if my tale can give you a small, sweet break from this speeding train called life, I would be truly pleased. E seun pupo (thank you very much in Yoruba). Enjoy!
Time: Now
MCs: FF
SubGenre: Contemporary Romance; Contemporary Erotica
Themes: First Love; First Time; Age Gap; Size Gap
Summary: A student who never gets over her favourite teacher suddenly finds her again and decides to know her fate.
Pt.1: My blind eyes are desperately waiting for the sight of you. – Richard Burton to Elizabeth Taylor
I can’t believe she’s here. Of all the places I would have thought to see her again, it wouldn’t be just like this. No cymbals crashing, angels singing, rainbows with unicorns flying over her head. But just looking at her, I still heard all those things. Do I approach her? Am I old enough now? Fuck, she could be married! We were all certain she was, at least, queer when we were in school. But what if she wasn’t? What if it was just as she said?
”Your minds should be as free, liberal, and accepting as the sky above our heads. That’s the kind of mind I want.”
How could she be even more beautiful? Ten years had passed, for fuck’s sake. She was 27 then, carried herself with the gravitas of a proper English miss if they came pecan-skinned, Yoruba, and 6ft of feminine perfection. I was 13, and it was the first time I realized so many things about myself that still leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth. But, isn’t this creepy also? Just staring at her through the glass pane as she reads a book while sipping something I’m sure isn’t plain coffee. “Why should any one or thing be plain?” I remember her voice, and I close my eyes again because I refuse to pinch myself to see if she’s real. As my eyes open to confirm that it’s really her, the rest of that oft-repeated speech rolled through my mind.
”We are all beautiful in ways peculiar to only us. Don’t lose yourself in the hive mind. Instead, turn inwards and find everything that you are and bring it out.”
She was our mum in school, our big brother on her masculine days, with a smile so big and wild that we teasingly called her the Joker. When she smiled at us after we’ve effed up and was about to make our ancestors feel it, I knew the real Joker didn’t know anything. Wickedness was beautiful and shone with love. Her goth lipsticks and elaborate makeup just made her even more Jokeresque. Just then, she shakes her head, closes her eyes, and grins. It’s still the same. My feet are moving before we asked my mind if this is the right thing to do. I open the door and even with the jingling wind chimes she doesn’t look up. Yup, no changes here. No curiosity and complete immersion in a book. I hurried towards her, wondering why I was breathing so hard as I stopped in front of her table.
”I’ll have a cheeseburger and a rum Chapman, please,” that warm, husky voice orders and soothes all at once.
”Miss Ronke?” I breathe, thinking I’m going to have an asthma attack from all the emotions going through me. Please, not now, I beg my body. She looks up, pushes down her glasses with her forefinger on one corner of it and I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. Especially as I don’t know why I want to cry. ”Coumba?” She husks, getting out of her chair and coming round to cup my chin. ”Coumba Ndiaye?” I nod.
”Ooohhh,” she hugs me. ”All grown up now,” she crows and I really do burst into tears. As usual, she holds me, rocks me a little, hmming as she leads me to the seat in front of her. The woman was never terrified of emotions. She just wanted us to be aware that they needed to be controlled as there is a time and place for everything.
She keeps my hand in hers, lightly rubbing a finger over the back of it. When I am calm enough, I look up to see the face I’ve craved for so long. Blackest black eyeliner sharp enough to cut over purple and yellow eyeshadow. Pecan skin, touchable and lickable as always. Navy blue cat eyeglasses with white rhinestones on the upper rim all the way to the tip. She doesn’t need braid extensions anymore. Her locs that she’d begun when she joined the school are waist-length now, with some in a large bun in front, tilted to one side and the ever-present pen stuck in her hair. Her locs are coloured like a rainbow flag but I can’t remember which one. And that’s when my voice decided to work…
Again, I’m grateful for feedback as I try to separate my writing voice from the myriads in my head. Do stop by and chat. Stay safe and Happy Reading!
THE QUILLE AND LAMPE 
I’m so sorry! 😧 I didn’t get a notification and had no idea whatsoever that you’d posted such a scrumptious bite for our delectation😲 I’m horrified that I missed it…and missed out because oh, how I gobbled this up and delighted in every wonderful word. 🥰 You’ve written it so beautifully — painted Ms Ronke so vividly — that I could taste her. 😻Every word left me hungry for more. (Being a bitalot greedy and not a bit abashed about it). And yet, as much as it left me craving more…your story is perfectly, exquisitely complete in itself. Enscapsulating a moment so precious, priceless, it would almost be rude to intrude on their next few moments. No matter that I now feel a very lot like Oliver holding out a hopeful plate for a morsel or more. And p’raps a spot of dessert too 😋😳 Thank you so much for sharing your treasure of a story with us. ❤️
LikeLiked by 1 person