40. Clarissa

This isour last night here, and it’s bittersweet. I talked to my parents a few times, and I am eager to see them, but the way this vacation has been perfect, I never want to leave.

My curls are big and fluffy as I separate them in the bathroom mirror before I get dressed in a yellow tank top and a long multi-patterned skirt that falls to my ankles. Yellow does something wonderful to my melanin, and I wink at myself before I leave the bathroom.

“‘Bout time. You ready?”

I narrow my eyes, and Tyson is smiling from across the room.

“I’m playing.” He laughs, and I slip on my shoes. He comes up and kisses my cheek, and once again, I melt. If I’m not careful, I’ll be in a constant state of oozing emotions—literal putty in his hands.

“Okay, you ready?”

“Yep.”

What I find the most exciting is Tyson knows all the spots to go. We walk right by restaurants with long lines and dip into places my mom would call “a hole in the wall.” But every single time, it’s a hit. The food and atmosphere are top-tier.

So after a successful dinner, we walk the streets. There’s still that slight chill in the air, but it’s much warmer than it has been all week.

“Wow, tonight is warm,” Tyson says, swinging our hands between us. I have a moment where I want to pinch myself cause how am I swinging arms with this fine man as we walk the streets of London, smiling from ear to ear? It’s giving if you’re reading this, it’s too late because I’m afraid I’m already head over heels for him. There’s no tiptoeing and going slow. I dove in head first, and I hope I don’t drown, but my ability to regulate or reel back my emotions is obsolete. So I don’t try.

And when we walk by a group singing a cappella on the street, we stop. Their sweet harmonies blend, and I’m moving my hips. Tyson smiles at me, and before long, we’re dancing in the street. My head is down as I watch my feet make a rhythm on the ground. My laughter is unabashed, and so is Tyson’s. I should be embarrassed, or at least I would have been before. I could see Tyree telling me to chill, but I don’t want to chill.

“Fucking beautiful,” Tyson says as he pulls me close and we dance. I’m not sure how each night can be more perfect than the last, but as we laugh under the backdrop of London while soulful vocals fill the air, I know this is where I’m supposed to be.

“Issa.”

Just my name, and I understand. This is too much, yet not enough. How can it feel so raw and perfect so soon?

“I know.”

Just as the words leave my lips, the sky opens up. I gasp when an onslaught of cool water pours down on me. Tyson’s eyes are dark and so focused on my face that I’m not sure he registers it started raining. I smile, and he returns it before leaning down to kiss me.

In my peripheral, I can see the band rushing off to get dry, and as the street empties, I clutch Tyson around his neck and kiss him like I’ll never see him again.

It’s wild and thorough. He grips my face and kisses me with such conviction my knees go weak. We stand there with our clothes getting drenched. The sensation of water droplets adds to the twisting in my core, and I’m vibrating. So when he pulls away, I whine and move to kiss him again. When he laughs and pulls me down the street, I follow, although I want so badly to be kissing him instead.

But when he ducks off to a side building with a small ledge that gives us a reprieve from the rain, I squint my eyes. And when he presses me against the building with my face in his hands and kisses me like I’m the love of his life? I melt.

And just like that, we’re lost again to the earthy smell of fresh rain and the swooshing sound as it hits the pavements. I moan into his mouth as my skirt is lifted and his fingers explore.

“Fuck, Issa. Gotdamn!”

I want to say ditto, but I’m too lost in what his fingers are doing to speak. I’m all limbs and joy.

Nothing could burst us from this bubble.