The Sunday before last - the one after the Saturday-night before last - I sat beneath a sturdy and handsome palm tree at a bad-service and angry Kloof Street restaurant called Vovo Telo.
I sat there, at a table, across from a heavy and dark 2,5 years, which I constantly tried to placate and whose void I desperately attempted to fill with my awfully-cheerful banter, paddling ever-faster-and-faster in the way that I do (it comes from being the eldest child of three in a family wracked by non-stop fighting between destructive parents hellbent on NOT divorcing for-the-sake-of-the-children - why THE FUCK not, I've asked myself for the rest of my life?).
But, this time, an exception, I had a broad smile on my internal dial, not for a minute thinking that my life was - already - unalterably changed, also that - arrogantly - I thought I was in control.
[Haha, the joke was not only me, but also on me!] Although my talents are few, one of them remains my self-deprecating ability to piss myself, at myself.
An infant in beauty-and-screeching is being dummied-shut behind me; my heart melts for the miniscule creature; I find myself heaping blessings and love upon her soul (may her life journey be a blessed one).
Yup, I'm at another coffee shop (sadly) writing about other coffee shops; my existence is one that exists between coffees and coffee venues. [It's a beautiful day, more reminscent of autumn than spring.]
Right now I'll do anything to distract myself, even ordering a smoked chicken and mozarella on a low-GI molasses-colour roll (my metabolism is fuck-fast) while simultaneously whattsapp-ing, Grindr-ing and leaving off my-meeting-in-6-minutes to the last minute plus one.
Flummoxed. [Have I spelled that correctly?]
I wrote him (not 2,5-years) a goodbye-letter yesterday morning after much heart suffering: Dear Catalyst thank you, but bon voyage.
We (not 2.5-years) would meet again that (Sunday) night, after THE Saturday night, to switch on the lights on the side of the building - just off Nelson Mandela boulevard, not far from my work, where he got me down in the street.
He took a bad photo of the lights in-between the lights-and-sparks of two souls trying desperately to be one, inside a spacious car with yellow and black Zimbabwean registration plates.
And now I push send (I'll have to come back to fix the mistakes).