The Cry

She cried over everything. From her grade in Chemistry, to the hatching of chickens. Her tears knew no bounds even, when her father died two years ago. On that day I watched her like a baby; like a father ignorant of how to stop his daughter from wailing.
The first signs were the sniffs. She would sniff even in exhilaration, to notify me that mood would change for tears. Then the regular fidgeting would follow. Her hands would work anything close by, including my own hands. Then, her eyes would be glassy as they await my million dollar question; 'What is going on?' If I did not ask, she would not cry. So I would sooner than later learn to stop asking; at least not in that manner.

I looked into her eyes as we finished that bottle of champagne. We had decided to attend the debut opening of this Chinese restaurant in Lagos to commemorate our 5 years together over a bottle of wine. I looked at her ever pretty face. She was not made up, and even so, perfection spelt every detail on her face. Her eyes were the most beautiful things in the world, akin to the moon- or two moons. They looked even better without her glasses, and she had chosen not to wear them today. Describing perfection was a vain attempt, just as describing her tonight would be. She took my hands and returned the gaze, as her laughter reverberated in my head a gazillion times. But I could feel it. I could feel the unease of her hands atop mine. I knew I had missed the first stage, lost in her perfect self. The next stage was not far from me, however, as I could see her happy eyes turn glum.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, struck with worry. She looked down in refusal to stare back at me.

"Hey. Do not cry. You know I hate it when you do. I love you." I clasped her hands even tighter as I tried to reconfigure her concentration on my face.

"Talk to me honey. What's going on?" And that did it.

That, however, was the last time I ever saw her cry, as she told me she was in love with somebody else.