‘I can’t take all the credit. I think it was a team effort. Clearly we work well together.’
The air between us draws tight, and it is only then that I am acutely aware that it is only us on the balcony. The interval is over and everyone else has gone back in for the rest of the show. Neither of us make any move to return. From the din of the bar, the muted melodies of a neo-soul song floats through the fire-escape doors and weaves itself through the chaotic symphony of the streets below. Hot T-Shirt Guy clears his throat and says, ‘Do you wanna go back in?’
My belly dives in apprehension. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
His face relaxes further, and the corner of his lip flicks up and pulls my pulse up with it. ‘Uh, so anyway, she took it as the compliment that it was, and then she said, “Well, why don’t you introduce me to the guys at your work?” Oh, I work in A&R at a record label by the way—’
‘Wait, really? Where?’
He looks wary. ‘Synergy Records.’
I smile. ‘Oh wow, cool. I’m a photographer, specialising in music. I’ve toured with some of your artists.’
He visibly relaxes and steps closer to me, eyes lighting up, ‘Seriously? That’s dope.’
‘Mmm. You thought I was gonna try and send you my Soundcloud link, didn’t you?’
‘I definitely, did, yes. I’ve been through a lot. I’m Deji, by the way.’ He holds his hand out, which seems like an oddly formal thing to do, considering we’ve live-witnessed each other’s romantic failings intimately. Nevertheless, I take his hand to shake. His wraps around mine firmly and my heartbeat jounces.
‘Um, nice to meet you. I’m Orin.’
His eyes widen and he steps back, as if to take me in. ‘Shit, are you Orin Adu?’
‘Yeah . . . how do you—’
‘I love your work. Seriously, it’s stunning. This may be a super nerdy thing to say, but I don’t give a fuck— I follow your photography account on Instagram. I’ve actually got one of your prints on my wall, Burna Boy in Paris? Incredible. Your stuff is real art. Am I fanboying? I’m fanboying, innit. I’m gonna stop talking now.’
His calm urbanity fractures further and gives way to something genuine and wholesome. He holds both warm and cool in his palm, easy-going without being nonchalant, affable without being corny. The sparking embers in my belly birth a beam that I feel spreading across my face, filling up my cheeks, spilling into my eyes. I feel like I’m shining with it.
‘Thank you. Seriously, I really appreciate that. Kind of makes me feel like my mum’s not-so-secret perpetual disappointment in me quitting law is worth it.’
Deji nods deeply. ‘Ah. I feel you. My Nigerian-Parent-Appeasement-Degree was Economics.’
‘Classic. Shit— Sorry! I interrupted! Look at me getting all Raphael Akin on you.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, not at all. That was a monologue. This is a great conversation. So, right, she tells me to tell the guys at work that I have discovered the next Rihanna, and I say, “I’m not so sure I can do that”， so she says, “Well, why the fuck not?”’ He does what is quite an eerie impression of her voice and holds a sassy finger up. ‘And I go “I just don’t think you’re ready for that kind of career development.”’
I nod. ‘Very good.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, she goes “Well maybe you’re not ready for all of this!”， to which she gestures to herself. She calls me a fuckboi and then leaves. So that’s how I figured out that she was pretty much using me for my connects. Disappointing. If I’m used by a woman, I prefer it be for my body.’
I suck in some breath after I recover from my laughing fit. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s not funny.’
‘It kind of is. It’s fine, this was only the third date. We had nothing in common. That’s the last time I DM slide on Instagram.’
I look at him incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’
Deji shakes his head. ‘Nope. I mean, realistically, how is anyone meant to meet anyone? I’m working all the time and dating apps make me want to shoot myself in the head. How did you meet Carlton Banks? Excuse me if I’m wrong, but he doesn’t exactly seem like your type.’
I laugh. ‘Ugh. Yeah, he is essentially the antithesis of what I usually go for. Which is why I went for him. My job means that I’m on the road a lot with musicians, so my type tends to be guitarists, bassists, drummers, you get the drift, right? And it pretty much always ends up the same way: heartbreak. I was complaining about my lack of luck with guys at my friend’s baby shower, and one of her friends suggests that maybe it’s because I date the same type of guy. She works in finance and she’s like, “You know what? I think I have someone. He’s the only black guy in the office.” And while corporate racism is a very real thing, now I think he’s the only black guy in the office because he killed the rest. Anyway, I figure that maybe a change is good, and maybe my mother is right, and I should go for someone who wears a tie to work. Like, maybe my idea of romance is bullshit and finding someone who gets me completely is a fantasy and maybe I can put up with someone who is entirely the opposite of what I want if they treat me right. Like who needs excitement, right? Maybe it’s impossible to have excitement and stability at the same time. But even my attempt to settle didn’t work out. Maybe I’ll just resign myself to being an extremely glamorous perpetually single artist who owns birds.’