Mojo, revisited.

I had a serious case of the bruised pride. I mean, I had just kind of thrown myself at a boy, and it had ended abysmally. I got home and my mother excitedly asked, ‘so, how did it go?’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth, and I fear she won’t have let it go, so I run with ‘Mojo wasn’t interesting’ (which was of course, far from the truth).

Mojo had a made a bet with a friend. A bet he had made before he met me (#novanity). A bet, that at 21, he was going to keep, to prove a point, as all 21 year olds feel the need to do (I know, I’ve been there). Mojo’s bet was that he would remain celibate for a month, which given my description of Mojo and my clearly uninhibited behaviour around him, you will understand was just ridiculous. I happened to meet Mojo on approximately day 15 of the bet. Which was also exactly 14 days till I was due to return to my little hole many miles away.

I took on the airs of a wounded cat after my rejection, and did what I do best, I deleted Mojo. I tried the assassins but naturally the laughed in my face; not only was I offering a pansy sum in remuneration, but they sided with Mojo. Apparently, a little hurt pride wasn’t such a bad thing for bringing me back to earth. So I had resorted to the manual delete: I ‘lost’ his business card, deleted all the texts on my phone, and then, on a Friday evening, in the middle of prayer, I pulled out my phone, blinked exactly 3 times and deleted his phone number. I could now pretend none of that had ever happened. My friends had other ideas and continually informed me of ‘Mojo sightings’. They really did try to make it a summer of discontent.

I wrestled thoughts of Mojo from my mind and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if he walked past me, slapped me in the face, and perhaps even curled my eyebrows (not that I know why he would be doing that), I would not recognise him. I was very sure of this, content that my powers of deletion had been successful. Time obliges you in that way, and gives credence to such self delusions. Two years later, while sitting in the car park of Junction waiting for my brother, I glimpsed a car at approximately 15 metres, moving at 10 km/hour, and turning AWAY from me. Imagine my utter surprise when my heart fluttered and immediately announced to my head that the passing flicker of light was Mojo. These two elements of my body were engaged in fierce battle as to which possessed the better memory, but my hand and mouth had other ideas. His car had now come to a stop, waiting for parking one assumes. I was standing out of my car. How all this happened, I don’t know. ‘Mojo!’ he turned. The ‘real’ me gave my mouth a stern look, but in that moment of distraction my hand was free to do as it wished. Therefore, it waved. Excitedly I tell you. Very very excitedly.

It was very awkward. The location was less than ideal, standing in the middle of a parking lot. These things are never as romantic as movies make out. It was far too hot to just stand there, and there were separate engagements to be attended to. I felt a small lump rise in my throat. Hurt pride. We hugged hello and hurriedly caught up on a few months worth of life, before the ‘let’s properly catch up’ line was bandied about. The problem was I did want to catch up. After all, one of the most attractive things about this man (aside from arms, smile, derriere), was the fact that he was really quite intelligent. Book smart, but more importantly for me, life smart. The kind of people I wanted to occupy a place of prominence in my life. I mumbled something about phones, and Mojo, oblivious, replied that his number was still the same. Once I had constructed a suitable explanation, he gave me his number again, and the deal was done. I skulked back to the car, wondering where we would go from here...

To be completed (after 15th...last exam).