Yaya Koffi

Yaya and Carrie were trying to build a regression model for their statistics class. Yaya was 23, in his first year at business school after graduating from a university in his home country of the Ivory Coast in Western Africa. Carrie had always fancied him, but first she was dating you, then she was dating your dad. Yaya's name was absurd, but oddly enough it fit him: excitable, extroverted, fun. And he was fit, with jet black skin that made Carrie's toes curl. Finally she put down her pink, glittery pen.

"Are you seeing anyone, Yaya? Like as a girlfriend?" Carrie asked sweetly.

"No, I was seeing a girl, but she couldn't keep up with Yaya, you know?"

"I know. I'm not seeing anyone either. You think you might want to go out? Just as a friend for now, maybe like the gym?" Yaya smiled big.

"Yaya!" he said. It was a dumb joke, but his laugh was infectious. Carrie giggled. This was going to be fun. Maybe not lasting, but fun.