So, we’re returning from our third date. Telling each other how much of a good night out we had, we hug. She asks that I call her. I nod, ecstatic. How I like this lady! So much I loathe to leave. But I have to.

Turning around, heading to flag down a taxi, I hear her door click shut. That is my prompt—run up to her window to steal one final gaze for today. Yeah, I know it’s creepy, but what will a brother do?

The date!

The date!

I see a pair of legs on the wall, then I hear a much deeper voice—no, that can’t be hers—reciting some mantra. Hearing my full name with ‘blood,’ ‘donation,’ and ‘tonight’ as immediate neighbours in the same sentence, my legs need no telling what to do. Just then she vanishes from the bed! I turn around to flee only to see her right there. And all goes black.

White walls, white gowns; and white bandage wrapped around my intensely aching head. Must have been a concussion. Trying to adjust to the light, a face wafts into my view, inches away.

“Hey you,” a broad smile on her face.

I re-faint.

© Bunmi Oke


A short attention span and a slow reading pace make Bunmi Oke’s helpless affair with micro fiction less of a surprise. His works can be found on Microbookends, 81words, Drablr, 101words etc, while a tiny piece comes out in print in Boston Literary Magazine June 15, 2015.
Oftentimes, he is seen furiously typing away on a smartphone—often mistaken for an addiction to chat. If only folks knew what muse does to you unless you give it expression.



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