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I’m sitting here at the gardens waiting for her to finish her classes and join me for an early drink at Busaba. It is late afternoon and the sun’s light feels heavy, like syrup. I feel soporific, when a flash of red glass catches my eye.

Reminding me of the woman I thought of as my lover. I slip into a dream and it takes on the sheen of a teenage fantasy and I allow it free rein.

Her lips were always glossy. Soft pink – they reminded me of glass baubles. They oddly off-set her hair, which was red. Indians with red hair always seem to wage war against the world and their own skin colour. But she wore red with the conviction of the nonchalant. It was so much a part of her, that it was taken for granted by nearly everyone she came in contact with.

She wrote poems, with brutal verses. Like the nail marks she left on my back after we made love. She would make love to me like the songs she wrote for her singer friend. Intense, exquisite and filled with the raging passion that seemed to be her very essence.

She was made of curves and muscle and delicious reserves of flesh and to sink into her was like sinking into a ménage of women like her – sensual, powerful and warm.

I could never get enough of her. She asked me point-blank once, “I’m plump. Why aren’t you with a slim, 20-something?”

I told her, “The very tone in which you spat out ‘slim, 20-something’ is one of the things that keep me hooked on to you. You are a handful, and I don’t mean that in the physical sense. I am a happy drunk when I have you.”

It was true. Every other woman paled in front of her and became mere shadows of the woman she was.

I singled her out at first glance as the only woman who could slake my thirst and match my appetites. She proved me right.

I could sink into her and drive her insane. She would thrust back at me and her eagerness would rip the nerves from my skin. Her husky cries would urge me on – making me throb in agony and need. Matching its purpling with the furious ruching on her ample breasts.

Our bed was an ocean of want and our heaving, slick bodies the waves we rode with each other. I would dig my fingers in her arms, desperately trying to sink as deep into her as I could. Her skin would bear the marks of my struggle. It made her eyes water. It made her eyes flash. Sometimes, together.

When she rose above me, her body mine to revel in, I would feel like a man destined to drown his life in the arms of the most brutal of ecstasies. Thrusting into her depths and spending myself in her body felt like a second coming.

We were reduced to flesh, sweat and juice and when it all got too far, blood. The way she filled me, she left me sated.

In every man’s life, there can be just one Boadicea, and I lost mine to another man. I lost my saviour to another man.

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