Here’s a key for the timeline: before heartbreak (BHB); during heartbreak (DHB); tentatively, after heartbreak (AHB); and nothing happened (NH).
A is for Anna. Thirty-three, fourth-grade teacher, whose husband could’ve killed you—BHB. Her husband said, in a venomous whisper potent with promise, that if you ever texted, called, or saw Anna again he’d end your lease on life. I listened while you told Isabella, your housemate, about the restaurant encounter as the two of you sat on your bed. You’d been expecting Anna— instead her cheerless husband showed up looking like he was prepared to gore you with the horns you’d put on him. He looked jaundiced when he walked in, and when he saw you, he reddened with humiliation. You stayed silent as he sat down and threatened you. Even in public it wasn’t certain someone would spring to your assistance if he hit you. Just a month ago a man had slapped his wife into and out of a full café while the patrons ordered lunch. (The waiter who dropped the tray of glasses that afternoon was humiliatingly chastised by the manager.) Anna’s husband looked at you with anger and a strange defeat. You were supposed to be a fantasy, a fetish hidden in hastily cleared internet searches. Instead you were a person, a clear and imminent danger: an unknown sender of salacious messages and a thief of straying spouses. He’d looked at your hands on the table, probably imagining them stroking sensuous notes from his wife and relegating him to second, fumbling fiddle. “You bitch. You fucking bitch!” His grip on your wrist twisted the skin. With cold danger you barely mustered, you told him to let you go. He released your hand like he’d been singed. His eyes scoured the room. Did people know? “Fucking dyke!” He walked out. You stayed away from Anna.
B is for Brixton. Twenty-one, poetry student, the willing one—DHB. On the young side, but sometimes you liked them before they settled into their molds: clones of their fathers, uncles, brothers, comic-book heroes, or whomever they saw in porn clips. Brixton—a pliable soul, completely besotted with you, his acquiescence was a deferential “Okay.” He squeezed his eyelids tightly together, clenched his teeth, and hoped there’d be epic stanzas waiting for him in the end instead of the shame of your triumphant experimentation: “Next week you’ll be able to take the whole thing, baby,” you said when you kissed his sweaty forehead.
C is for Carlos. Twenty-four, geologist, the confusing one—BHB. In the week he was supposed to get married he ran laps through your bedroom faster than Carl Lewis. You asked him what he saw in his future wife, and he said she was lovable and devoted to him. You said she had boring qualities as he worked his way around your body, your clothes accepting gravity’s tug. “I know,” he said, “but that’s why it’s love.” Later, you lay awake wondering what he meant.
D is for Dyanna. Twenty-seven, photographer, the fling who caught feelings—BHB. You warned her you weren’t relationship hunting. She said she was cool with it. “That’s how it always starts,” Isabella said. “And before you know it, you’ve slow-stroked her into thinking it’s love.” You ignored Dyanna for two weeks before she got the message.
E is for Essaouira. Thirty-one, writer, the first love—BHB. Sometimes when we’re alone, with me moving through the gears trying to synchronize with your rhythms, you’ve said her name as I probed you to your zenith. Her euphonious voice, her faraway eyes, her submerged silences, gliding below her surface like an unseen leviathan. The two of you, a breathless eagerness of interlocked braids, arms, legs, and requited kindnesses. She teased you about your past amours. You feigned good humor, even at the ones that stung. The oaths of her continued presence through all things, all times, all places; her new life without you; and that last note: I hope you don’t hate me. You didn’t. You don’t. And you think that makes you a coward.
F is for Fabian. Thirty-nine, accountant, one of many deceivers—NH. He said he was into kink, talked a big game. When you whispered what you wanted, he shot off the bed. “What the fuck?” Later, he sent you a text message: That homo shit isn’t for me. But if you ever need a poke, holler. You never did. You had me.
G is for Gina. Twenty-nine, illustrator, the first deceiver—NH. She got a coveted residency in England. You found out she was leaving a week before she flew out and left you with half the rent to pay like she didn’t know how little you earned. “Look, woman, or whatever,” the landlord said, “first of the month like we agreed. Regular—like periods. Do you even get those? Well, make the rent or get out.” That’s how Isabella moved in with you: a friend recommended her; she was moving out of her boyfriend’s flat. You apologized to her about the permanent marker sketches on her room’s wall, but Isabella said she didn’t mind. Two weeks later you helped her paint her room turquoise.
H is for Hermione. Thirty to you, witch, the one no man deserves—BHB, DHB, AHB, and forever. “Can you imagine,” you said in bed once, cuddling your latest quarry, “moaning out Ronald in bed? Some names aren’t worth the thread count.”
I is for Isabella. Thirty-two, doctor, whom you’re in love with—NH. You both paid the rent and healed on the couch, sharing stories of your respective relationship chagrins. Neater than Gina; quiet in the kitchen in the mornings; always left some food for you when she cooked; took over the dealings with the landlord who seemed scared of her; and equipped with elfin ears that never judged your past—her admirable qualities stretched on. A binge-watcher of period dramas—“Emma Thompson and I belong together,” she said, giving you hope she’d one day lower her expectations and settle for you. The two of you were in the lounge watching The Remains of The Day. From the lounge I saw you get up to leave because you spent entirely too much time sneaking glances at her elbows and wrists, fine things wrought from bone and filmed over with skin that made you avert your eyes when she walked past your bedroom’s door in her bath towel. You hoped your presence would tempt her to fly a different flag, that one night there’d be a knock on your door and she’d crawl beneath your covers. Once, after reluctantly hosting the book club meeting—a fortnightly meeting of the shiraz sisterhood (since no one read the books)—the two of you lay on your bed. She wasn’t looking forward to the next day: the financial shortages of the hospital; the poorly trained junior doctors under her supervision; and the inhumane duration of her shifts—“God,” she said, “I think the only thing I miss more than rest is an orgasm. But I’ll settle for sleep.” You offered her the best two-for-one deal for miles around. Your arm had managed to sneak around her waist. She looked at you intently for a couple of breath-laden seconds. “We wouldn’t be good for each other,” she said softly. She stood up and walked to the door. “Plus, I know all your dirty secrets.” You said the two of you would be starting on more honest footing than most people. As she closed the door she chuckled and said, “You need the secrets to start the romance.”
J is for Jemima. Thirty-six, museum curator, who also wanted Isabella— DHB. She was in-country for a while splashing grant money looking for pieces of local African history and art to steal for a gallery in London. She looked at Isabella in the same way you did, sneaking looks at her in the kitchen as she chopped vegetables. You let her go via FaceTime and tried to make yourself scarce around Isabella and her fine, fine collarbones.
K is for Kieran. Thirty-four, bartender, a decent guy—BHP. Patient and delicate with me; called me a bad boy even though I was actually a girl. He popped me in his mouth when I was gooey and pleasure-splattered. I lost my thoughts in the rum taste of his tongue and the gentle suction of his cheeks. He always folded his clothes—I appreciate neatness—before he started ministering his attentions to you. He wasn’t what you wanted. When he realized who you secretly coveted, he shook his head and politely decamped from your life.
L is for Layla. Thirty-two, content producer, you, the one I’ll serve for as long as you’ll have me—BHP, DHB, and AHB.
M is for Myra. Twenty-nine, actress, whom I didn’t like—DHB. She insisted on it just being the two of you. “We don’t need this,” she said, putting me aside. I buzzed with ferocious, industry-leading joy when you left her.
N is for Naomi. Twenty-four, socialite, whom you didn’t mind sharing— DHB. You’re certain she had wealthy men on the side. She was touch-and-go because she didn’t use protection with her benefactors. You hoped Jesus had your back while you blew hers out.
O is for Orianna. Thirty-eight, environmental lawyer, divorcée, you hoped she’d supplant Isabella—DHB. She never stressed you out with questions about other people, other pleasures, other lives. You shackled yourself to her as a distraction. When the two of you were on song, your nerve endings sung with elemental chorus notes. When her career whispered to her from far corners of the planet, she breezed with the zephyrs of her calling.
P is for Payton. Thirty-five, conservationist, the rebound’s rebound— DHB. Orianna’s colleague. He ran a foundation that told people not to eat their environment even though it’s all they had. He left you before you could leave him.
Q is for Quinn. Thirty-seven, saleswoman, who was all business—NH. This is what I remember about you when I first saw you: a curious browser, an attentive reader of packages and assessor of patent guarantees and latent promises. I vied with all the others to be your pleasure and freedom. “Now, this is very good,” Quinn said, reaching for my transparent box. “Ribbed shaft, six different intensities, six unique vibration patterns, quiet but powerful motor that’ll come in handy when you need to sneak in one at a sleepover. Rechargeable, too. Check out the curve. This one’s different from the others in one special way: the vibrations go all the way to the tip. Feel that? No dead inches on this baby!” You winced at the price tag. “If you get this,” Quinn said, “I’ll toss in two free cleaning kits.”
R is for Roux. Twenty, architecture student, who had the best weed— BHB. According to her you were much too old when she flicked through your Spotify selections: “Florence and the Machine? You’re practically a granny.” She proceeded to preach and blast the gospels according to Tash Sultana throughout the house. “Isn’t she a bit on the young side?” Isabella asked. Yes, but you wanted to know if young girls had the rejuvenating qualities old men said they did. They weren’t all wrong. Roux’s weed could blow you into the next week or the last decade depending on which strain she filched from her boyfriend. Even Isabella—high, laughing, and coming down from a 36-hour shift in the emergency room—admitted Roux brought delightful energy to the place.
S is for Santeri. Forty-eight, investment banker, possessor of nothing— NH. He said he loved the tattoos on your arms before he saw the extent of the ink work—upper back, sternum between the breasts, navel, and hips—and heard of the plans to add to the reptilian scales, kraken tentacles, and dancing skeletons. He said he wasn’t comfortable with it all. “Won’t the artist have to see intimate parts of you in order to tattoo . . . there?” You said he might. “He?” Santeri’s nose flared. He flat-out said no. You told him it wasn’t his decision to make. He possessed nothing. Certainly not you. You asked him to leave. “Fuck this,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “You’ve probably been through miles of dick anyway.” You fished me out of the bedside drawer and confronted him in the corridor: “Sadly your five inches aren’t going to add to the distance!” He said I was practically a falchion as you brandished me in his face, shouting, and swearing at him to leave. “Fucking lesbian nympho!” he said. You shoved him into the wall. Santeri paused, like he was about to hit you. Behind you Isabella’s door opened. “Yo,” a male voice said, “she asked you to leave.” You turned and saw Isabella in her pajamas, flanked by a stranger, coming towards you. Santeri and the stranger squared off: his average height looking up at the taller man; flapping checkered shirt versus bare-chested, pull-up-game strong shoulders; brown Chino pants up against gray Lycra boxer shorts scarcely covering the moral equivalent of what you held in your hand. Santeri turned to walk out. He nearly slammed the door until Isabella’s man said, “You’d better shut that shit quietly, too.” After Santeri left a hush descended. The stranger turned to you, inspected me, and said, “More like a shamshir or a scimitar, actually.” You all laughed, but I saw you sadden when you looked at Isabella. Ah, heartbreak.
T is for Thalia. Twenty-eight, Peace Corps volunteer, the girl with the gecko tattoo—DHB. She didn’t deserve what you put her through. She endured your distance and ridiculing. You let her fly back to the US without letting her know she wasn’t the problem. You also vowed not to pick up anyone at the backpackers’ bar that attracted all the nature-loving, white savior complex-infested foreigners.
U is for Urian. Forty-four, university lecturer, whom you stripped of power—BHB. A married man, a charmer, a natural controller of things—a player who had to win. You went along with his game. You crawled to him, ate from his lap, called him master and daddy. You showed him how to tie the kinbaku knots, how to adjust the ball gag. You took the lashes without complaint. You gave him power over you. By submitting to him you took his sword thrust so he could be within reach of your knife: me. I think it would’ve been better if you were a nobody, or someone he could pay so he could own you in that way as well. But you were a known and free witness, seeing me take him out of himself. He was scared to look at you when he left. You, the keeper of his secrets, the guardian of his most private shames.
V is for Vivianne. Four, pulsator, me, the good vibrations.
W is for Wrachel. Twenty-five, activist, the one with the strange career— NH. You didn’t know activism was a job. “Clearly Germany is so advanced they’ve developed strange professions to keep people busy,” you said to her, irritated Isabella and her boyfriend were developing routines and rhythms. She swore at you and walked out.
X is for Xanthea. Thirty-seven, pathologist, the religious one—NH. She was convinced she was going to Hell for being what she was. You couldn’t bring yourself to follow through with her.
Y is for Yara. Thirty-five, multi-disciplinary artist, the secret. Platform boots, tortoise shell glasses, obscure taste in music and films, general aloofness in company, incense burner, prayer to the ancient African gods and respecter of ancestors—the consummate creative fraud. You didn’t think much of her art. Also, she was your cousin—more than kissing—so the less said about her, the better.
Z is for Zoe. Thirty-two, restaurant manager, your current one—AHB. You liked to refer to Isabella’s boyfriend as The Stranger—it helped to dematerialize him, reduce his space in the world, in Isabella’s, and, by extension, yours. You met Zoe, a connection of sorts. You were painting her nails on your bed—lumo pink, like me. Zoe thought it was sweet. Isabella walked in, teary-eyed, and sat down. The Stranger was going solo. No cheating, no warning, he was just going off by himself. You couldn’t decide if this was good or bad news. Isabella lay down and cried. Zoe spooned her, whispering platitudes to the back of her head. You held Isabella’s hand. She fell asleep with the two of you cocooning her. Zoe nodded off too. Only you remained awake, savoring the feeling of Isabella’s hand in yours, with the sky outside smearing itself with sunset and the rays cutting across the room. You propped yourself on your elbow and stroked Isabella’s hair. Her eyes opened. She looked at you. You leaned in and kissed her. She squeezed your hand. When you pulled back, Isabella smiled at you.
Rémy Ngamije is a Rwandan-born Namibian writer and photographer. His debut novel, The Eternal Audience of One, is forthcoming from Scout Press (S&S). He is the cofounder and editor-in-chief of Doek! Literary Magazine, Namibia’s first online literary magazine. His work has appeared in Litro Magazine, AFREADA, the Johannesburg Review of Books, Brainwavez, the Amistad, the Kalahari Review, American Chordata, Doek! Literary Magazine, Azure, Sultan’s Seal, Santa Ana River Review, Columbia Journal, New Contrast, Necessary Fiction, Silver Pinion, and Lolwe. He was shortlisted for the AKO Caine Prize for African Writing in 2020. He was also longlisted for the 2020 Afritondo Short Story Prize. In 2019 he was shortlisted for Best Original Fiction by Stack Magazines. More of his writing can be read on his website: remythequill.com