THE CALL

I stared at Amon’s business card for seven days.

Seven days of picking it up, putting it down, rehearsing what I might say, also chickening out and chancing something different to occupy my brain.

It’s 7:45 AM on a Monday. I have a presentation at the Ministry of Housing in two hours. I should be reviewing my slides. Rather, I’m holding this card like it might explode.

Call him. Just f*ck*ng call him.

Musoke’s voice from the history session:“ Sarah, not every man is David. You know this intellectually. Now you need to let yourself believe it emotionally. ”

I telephone before I can change my mind.

It rings. Formerly. Doubly. My heart hammers. Three times. Four —

“ Hello.” His voice is sleepy. Rough with sleep.

I indurate. I woke him up. Sh*t.

“ Amon? It’s it’s Sarah. From the coffee incident. And the request. I’m sorry, did I wake you? ”

A pause. Also, his voice comes back, warmer now. Further alert.

“ Sarah. No, it’s fine. I mean, yes, you woke me, but it’s fine. Good, actually. Great. This is great. ”

He’s rambling. I find myself smiling despite my nerves.

“ I can call back later if — ”

“ No! No, don't call back. I’m awake. Completely awake. What time is it? ”

“ Nearly eight. ”

He groans. “ In the morning? ”

I laugh. A real laugh. “ Yes, Amon. Eight in the morning. When most people are awake

“ I’m not most people. I’m an artist. We keep shark hours. ”

Silence. I realize I haven't actually said why I’m calling.

“ I was wondering about that offer for coffee without assault charges. Is it still available? ”

Silence on the other end. My stomach drops. I misconstrue this. He was just being polite. I should hang up —

“ Yes. Absolutely yes. When? ”

The excitement in his voice is slightly contained.

“ I have a presentation this morning, but'm I’m free this afternoon? Around two? ”

“ Two is perfect. Where? ”

“ Not Java House. ”

We both laugh.

“ Definitely not Java House. There’s a café near Makerere. Café Javas on Bombo Road. Quiet, good coffee, and I promise to sit at least three meters down from you at all times. ”

“ Two meters is fine. I’m feeling brave today. ”

“ Brave looks good on you, Sarah Nakitende. ”

My cheeks flush. I’m smiling like an idiot at my empty apartment.

“ I’ll see you at two. ”

“ Ca n’t stay. ”

I hang up. Sit firmed for a moment. I also let out a small, giddy laugh.

I did it. I called him. I've a date.

Not a date. Coffee.

perhaps a date.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Sarah, it’s David. I got a new phone. We need to talk. This is ridiculous. Call me.

My good mood evaporates. My hands shake.

Another textbook I know you blocked my number. Very mature. Look, Zainab and I broke up. I made a mistake. Can we please just talk?

My cutlet hovers over the communication. Part of me, the part that was married to him for three years — wants to respond. Wants to ask questions. Wants check, or explanations, or —

No.

I cancel both dispatches. Block the new number. Put my phone face-down.

I’m done being David’s backup plan.

The presentation went well. Better than well. Minister Kagaba actually smiles when I show the cost protrusions. Ms. Nabirye asks intelligent questions. Indeed, Mr. Okello — skeptical Mr. Okello — nods thoughtfully at the sustainability data.

“ We’ll review your proposal and be in touch within two weeks,” Minister Kagaba says.

I float out of that conference room on adrenaline and hope.

By 1:30 PM, I’m standing in my bedroom girdled by outfit options, having a minor extremity.

What do you wear to perhaps a-date coffee with a man who revealed coffee on you?

I settle on a simple dress. Green. Comfortable but enough. My natural hair in loose curls. minimum makeup.

I look in the glass. The woman looking back is n’t the rigid, controlled Sarah from a week ago. This woman looks hopeful. Alive.

It scares me.

I arrive at the café ten minutes beforehand. Nervous energy won't let me be late.

Amon was formerly there. At a corner table. He sees me and stands up so snappily he nearly knocks over his water glass. Catches it. Steadies himself.

His smile is pure joy.

“ Wow. ”

That’s all he says. Just wow.

I walked over. “ Wow yourself. You clean up nice. ”

He’s wearing clean jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair is nominated. He made trouble. For me.

“ I, uh, I got you this. ”

He holds out a single white rose. Suddenly tone-conscious.

“ It’s not much. I know it’s probably too important for coffee that it’s not a date, but I saw it and allowed — ”

I take the flower. Our fingers encounter. That familiar electricity.

“ It’s perfect. Thank you. ”

We sit. Awkward beat. Both started speaking at formerly.

“ So — ”

We laugh. The pressure breaks.

“ You first,” he says.

“ How was your morning? Besides being rudely awakened at an ungodly hour? ”

He smiles. “ Best wake-up call I’ve ever had. I painted for three hours after we talked. Couldn't get your voice out of my head. ”

My cheeks flush.

The server approaches. We order. Coffee and afters and normal date effects.

Not-date effects.

Whatever this is.

“ So,” Amon says when the waiter leaves. “ Tell me about your presentation. Did you move them to fund your housing project? ”

And just like that, we’re talking. Really talking. Not first-date small talk but real discussion.

He asks about my work. Actually listens. Asks follow-up questions that show he understands.

I ask about his art. His eyes light up describing his latest commission.

An hour passes. Also two. The coffee gets cold. We order more. Keep talking.

It’s easy. Natural. Like we’ve done this a hundred times ahead.

I catch myself laughing at something he said and realize I’m happy. Right now, at this moment, I’m genuinely happy.

Then my phone rings. David’s new number. Again.

Reality crashes back in.