A Pinch of Salt

Sarah’s the kind of girl who drips sauce. She knows she is right before you speak and that the world owes her nothing but applause for how great she is.

If you were to meet her at Buddy’s at six in the evening, you’d wonder who buys a whole bottle of liquor and drinks it as though she were climbing a mountain, one sip at a time. Slow burns.

If you were to meet her at Tuskys on a Sunday evening, you would marvel at perfection, for the milk and vegetables never touch the tissues and the soap. It’s a crime to contaminate food that you look forward to relishing.

Sarah’s the kind of girl who laughs from the depths of her soul.

She’s the girl who will come when you call at four in the morning, the kind that will ask you “what’s the guy’s name?” and conduct a thorough online search. If you are unlucky, she’ll hack into his messenger, whatsapp, twitter and IG DM’s and tell you what kind of skunk he is. Sarah’s that kind of girl.

If you were to meet her in the house, that house, somewhere behind Lumumba, where you take a left, go past the fundi wa viatu and count three red doors, then get to the green door…you’d see the shadows that drip venom. The kind of venom that crippled her mom and later on sent her sister six feet under.

The kind of venom that’s coated in honey and welcomes you into the throngs of destruction.

Sarah’s the kind of girl who drips sauce, you see sugar and spice, the world see awesomeness, but she let me see her bleeding veins and when she turned to look at me and we were outside that green door…I felt like she had poured a pinch of salt on my bleeding soul, the trouble with bleeding souls is that….

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