Chapter 4 Moyo
Moyo
I’VE ALWAYS BEEN BUILT DIFFERENT.
Another night of binge drinking without a single drop of vomit.
Unfortunately, that’s where my superior drinking powers end because as I’ve gotten older, a new alcohol-induced affliction has developed—a skull-splitting headache.
Today’s headache is confounded by a stream of sunlight through a crack in my blackout curtains.
Clearly, drunk Moyo forgot to do hungover Moyo a solid. Bitch.
I slowly raise my pounding head from my couch and assess the damage.
The room appears in order. My basket of horror movie Blu-rays sits untouched.
And nothing’s broken, unlike that one time in college that got me kicked out of school housing.
The only things amiss are the empty bottles strewn on the floor, marking my journey from my bar cart to the couch like a treasure map.
I look down at my disheveled attire, and memories of last night come flooding back. Blue eyes stab me once more, for good measure, and I groan in accordance. The sound is heavy, prolonged, and almost loud enough to drown out the doorbell.
“Now, who the fuck?” I whisper as I get up and retighten the loose knot on my coat.
I haven’t had the chance to look at my face or hair, but I know I look a mess.
My fingers fly to my face—I should stop doing that—and the dryness confirms my hypothesis.
I reach up to assess my hair, hoping to feel my bonnet.
But, like forgetting to do my skincare routine, I also forgot to wear my bonnet.
Honestly, what should I expect from someone who slept in a trench coat and last night’s lingerie?
The ding! goes off again, and usually the sound amuses me, but with this headache, it’s about as amusing as an awards show host. The ringing continues, increasing in frequency, while my patience nosedives. Now, I’m not a violent person, but vicious urges bubble in my core.
“I’ll kill them.” I yank the door open. “What?”
“Woah, anger management. Chill.”
The quick retort from the familiar voice acts as a bucket of ice water, dousing my anger with a sizzle. Sewa’s signature ginger braids swing past my eyes as she confidently walks into my space.
“Did you really text SOS to brag about your amazing night?” Sewa’s eyes land on the empty bottles, and she gathers the evidence of my horrible night. The worry on her face almost makes me curse drunk Moyo again.
“Don’t ask.”
Sewa squints and tilts her head in pure confusion. She doesn’t use any additional words, and I don’t give any answers. We stand in the middle of the room while the cold winds nip at us.
“Let me lock the door,” I whisper.
“Actually, wait a minute, don’t lock it. Anjie is basically here, and you don’t wanna have to get up again.”
“What time did I text you guys?”
“Around 3 a.m. Woke up early this morning to work on some things and I saw it.”
I swivel to face her. Sewa started her PhD in Linguistics almost two months ago and has been working every waking minute. If she’s awake in the godforsaken hours of the morning, it shouldn’t be to entertain my relationship bullshit.
“So why aren’t you in class?” I ask, concerned.
Her eyes widen, and her perfectly shaped eyebrows raise. “Moyo, darling, do you know what time it is? Do you know what day it is?” she asks softly, coaxing me back to the velvet green couch I spent the night on.
“Uh, I don’t know where my phone is, but I’m guessing eleven or twelve.”
“This is why I’ve told you, repeatedly, to get a wall clock,” she says.
I roll my eyes, patience thinning. Who in this day and age has a wall clock? “Are you gonna tell me the time, or are you just gonna be annoying?”
“Woah, again, anger management, chill,” she repeats in the same tone as earlier, but louder.
“I don’t need anger management classes.”
“Yeah, and I don’t need a car, so I can stop relying on the T,” Anjie calls from the front door. “Do you know what those two statements have in common? They’re both lies from the pit of hell.”
You could’ve sworn Key and Peele were in the room with us the way these two are laughing.
Tears stream down Anjie’s face and Sewa kneels on the floor with half her body on the couch.
If I had telekinesis, I would make the ground open up and swallow them because staying angry while they laugh is impossible.
“One more time, please.” Anjie barely gets out the words.
I take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and take another look at the complaint on my phone, which I found between the couch cushions.
After a quick charge, I learned it was mid-afternoon and, more importantly, Saturday. Which explained Sewa’s presence and why I hadn’t woken to my work alarm but not why Anjie was here instead of at her restaurant. A Cupid’s Bow notification popped up, and foolishly, I opened it.
The message read: Complaint received. A Cupid’s Bow representative will be in contact with you soon.
To which the girls chorused, “What complaint?”
To which I said nothing at first, waiting for drunk Moyo to respond, but she’d left me yet another battle to fight sober.
I clear my throat and read the sixth complaint I left on the app last night, which I’d addressed to Saturn.
“…or better yet, shove one of your seven rings up your ass, experience an orgasm, and leave the rest of us alone.” My attempt at a deadpan delivery instantly fails, and I bust out laughing with them. My laughter builds off of Sewa’s, which builds off of Anjie’s.
“That was wild,” Anjie says, wiping tears from her face. “So, why the drinking and the numerous complaints?”
I look toward Sewa, who has taken a strong liking to her fingernails.
“No, don’t look at her,” Anjie says, commanding my attention. “She texted me something was wrong and said you weren’t talking. So, now that we’ve had our laughs, let’s have our chats.”
Their eyes bore into my soul. Sewa’s huge ones pleading, holding space for whatever I’m about to share. Anjie’s smaller ones as calm as a tranquil lake, ready for whatever comes their way.
“I’m surprised neither of you mentioned the trench coat,” I say. Then, I tell the story.
“So, I downed the rest of that bottle, along with some other things, and filed so many complaints I’m surprised the app didn’t revoke my membership.” The rawness in my throat from crying as I recalled last night’s events ruins my attempt to infuse humor into the conversation.
My two best friends look at each other, grab their keys, and dash to the door. Sewa, the taller of the two, gets there first.
“Where are you going?” I reach them before they leave.
Once again, they look at each other.
“To murder a Caucasian. Why do you ask?” Anjie’s soothing voice makes it sound pleasant, not like premeditated murder.
Sewa’s voice is bland, like she’s talking about the weather or the horrors of the Red Line. “I was just planning to break some kneecaps, but murder sounds more thorough.”
“You don’t have to do that?” It comes out as a question because I’m still unsure about my feelings. I’m hurt and infuriated, but the more I think about it, the more I want to let it go.
I try again. “You don’t have to do that.” This time it comes out firm, and they step away from the door.
“We can make it look like you had nothing to do with it,” Anjie says sweetly.
Once again, the idea is tempting, but I took the Hippocratic Oath.
Plus, getting revenge on a cheating ex is younger Moyo’s thing.
And although it felt good to see my college-ex lose a few on-campus positions as well as his stellar reputation after a series of complaints—that I had nothing to do with—another time would be overkill.
“The universe will deal with him,” I say, eerily calm. I’ve never felt this way before, but it is incredibly welcome. Is this what happens when you’re older and wiser?
“Same universe that sent him to you, but okay,” Sewa mutters.
“Tell her, oh!” Anjie echoes.
I want to argue, but they’re right, and it’s hilarious.
The success stories of Cupid’s Bow are out of this world.
Almost every match I’ve heard of ended up in marriage or a long-term partnership.
It works, evidently. Maybe this year just isn’t my time.
Perhaps this disaster with Cole means I should take a hiatus to recoup and reassess my desires.
“The universe has shown me it’s not my time,” I say peacefully.
“Now, where did that come from?” Anjie’s retort is swift.
“Like you said,”—I point at Sewa—“the universe sent him to me and look at that mistake. If there’s anything I’ve learned recently, it’s to accept lessons as they come, so I don’t end up with a worse lesson one day.” Sewa nods receptively, while Anjie looks like I zapped her with a taser.
“You know none of this is your fault, right?” Anjie asks.
My shoulders heave before drooping. I cradle Anjie’s hands. “I know. But—”
“But nothing. It’s not your fault,” Anjie says. “I think you’re using this to avoid your feelings. If that’s what you want to do, that’s okay.”
I drop her hands with a frown. Here she goes again. Since we were clueless ten-year-olds, Anjie’s spouted some version of this. Once she discovered therapy, it became “feel your feelings, Moyo.”
“I complained to the app and cried while talking to you guys. I know my emotions, and I’ve felt them. I want to move on.”
“You don’t even remember those complaints,” Anjie says. “But it’s okay. Emotions demand to be felt. So, when the time comes—”
“Okay, spirit mama,” Sewa cuts in, slicing the tension.
Anjie and I chuckle, taking the out and leaving the conversation for another time. We head to the kitchen, and Sewa makes herself at home, like always. She grabs a pack of chicken thighs and a jar of recently opened pesto from the fridge, then opens my top cabinet to retrieve the pasta.
“I’m going to shower to get last night off me.” As I walk away, my mind casts back to the other dating apps I came across in my initial search. None of them have stellar ratings or reviews like Cupid’s Bow, but I’m sure I’ll find a decent one, if I try again.
“What will you do if they actually send someone to help?” Anjie’s question stops me in my tracks. My stern restaurateur is a lover girl—always has been and probably always will be. Despite not being interested in dating, Anjie’s the first one to remind us of the power of love.
And I get it, but the pursuit of love got me here, back to a hurt I never wanted to experience again. Maybe it’s time to pursue something like companionship. If love happens, fine, it’ll be a bonus.
Regardless of this new plan, I think about her Cupid’s Bow question. Those apps never send anyone. Who has the manpower to individually visit everyone who complains? It’s impossible.
“I’ll send them right back,” I respond, and Anjie shoots me a disturbed look.
I laugh it off because she’ll get over it, as will I.
Taking my sights off love means I’ll be okay.
Most importantly, I won’t get hurt again.
I’ll be fine because soulmates aren’t even real.
I won’t be missing out on anything or anyone by not dating.
All I need in this life of sin is me and my girls.
Nothing more. Nothing less.