I Wish It Was Him

The estimated reading time for this post is 1 minutes

I would look at his tall frame, his shoulders broad and slightly tilted to the right, his cool stride, never in a hurry yet always punctual. He would speak in low baritone notes and laugh heartily and loudly.

His left arm was almost always draped around her waist.

He loved his coffee. Black. Strong. The smell lingering on everything he wore, touched, every room he entered.

He would tilt his face up a bit, stroking his neat beards whenever he was thinking deep. And was he deep.

Perfect man. I hated him the way i hated the hold chocolate ice cream had on me. So bad.

His eyes would almost always meet hers before any decision was made.

His fingers were a beauty on their own. I could feel them trace up train tracks up my arms, around my slender neck. Maybe even down my back.

These thoughts have to stop, i scolded myself.

Picking up my leather black office bag, i logged out for the day. Enough accounts balanced for the day. I wonder how this became part of my job as a nurse. My stomach was about to kill me.

Edichie Edward is the one man who has everything and without trying, keeps getting more. He has a chain of companies involved in exporting catfish all over the world. Many think he is merely a beneficiary of his father’s wealth but those that know him know better.

Yes, as the first son of his father, he is entitled to a major portion of the family wealth. But, over the years, he had built up his own wealth.

The Edichie and Kanayo family have always been close, over generations. I don’t know how it all began but i was born into it. And so was Edward.

My sister, Tafo and Edward were born the same year and month. It looked divinely orchestrated. Both families already had unspoken wishes of seeing them getting married someday. And both of them were in no way disappointing them.

He rarely looked my way except to acknowledge my future title of ‘sister-in-law’.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: