This short story was completed during the Kommadagga workshop and residency at Paulet House in KwaNojoli in the Eastern Cape. The workshop was presented by the Jakes Gerwel Foundation in cooperation with LitNet and Huisgenoot.
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1. Saturday
You don’t know you’re doing it. Your hand reaches out to her when you laugh. It grazes her forearm for a second. You lean in when she makes a joke, knees like arrows for where your attention is. She keeps putting her hand on your thigh as she speaks, like Aunty Moena, who talks and taps you as she tells a story. Only this seems soft, not a habit; it’s familiar. Too intimate.
We’re on my three-seater couch, but the two of you are huddled on the left. Leaning back, I watch you reveal what you think is hidden.
This is not what I expected when I opened the door for you half an hour ago. I thought you’d be soft with me. I thought you’d smile that charming smile at me. I thought you’d be finding excuses to caress my arm, my back, my shoulder, my heart.
I’m a prop in a conversation ping-ponging between you and this friend you brought to my house. Our meeting spot for the past year and a half. We can’t chance being seen together in public. Your family doesn’t know about me. From the story of how she got dropped at your place, it sure the fuck sounds like they know about her. I’ve never been to your house. I’ve never met your people. You two laugh conspiratorially at one of your family’s inside jokes. You don’t notice I’m not getting it. Maybe I’m the joke here. Maybe that’s what you’re laughing at.
My parents wouldn’t pick up on the difference; they only want me to be happy. The forced smile on my face belies a heavy heart. It’s tearing out the pages of our love story one by one. In a gentle way, so as not to leave any jagged edges behind. The sound reverberates throughout me. You don’t hear it. You’re bent over at the waist, laughing at some kak joke she made with your hand squeezing her thigh. The top part of her thigh.
You lift your head, and your eyes accidentally meet mine. Your hand jerks off the offending leg. Well, the one that offends me. You seem to really like it. Your smile falters a fraction. My face is known for being a consistent and clear translation of my thoughts. Your knees attempt to turn towards me. I pretend to adjust my skirt so that we don’t touch.
Without waiting for her to finish her story, I stand and say, “I have to get ready.”
You open your mouth to say something. Probably charming. Probably cute. Probably lies. Your hand lifts towards me. I recoil. You freeze. You finally clock my rejection of your attempt to console me.
“I’ll see you on Monday at school.”
I wait to one side, eyes downcast, while you both stand. You can’t say anything in front of her. She walks to the door and you attempt to turn and put your hands on my back, pulling me into where I thought I was safe to rest. Where I thought was reserved for me. I move out of your reach, looking at your feet, arms limp at my sides.
Her voice calls you forward and you follow, not hesitating long enough, if you ask me. But who am I to question your actions? I certainly am not someone you value. I don’t recognise this as the love I thought you were teaching me. It seems you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about in the first place.
2. Monday
Each high-pitched voice slams into the walls. Each word zaps my brain like our electric fly swatter. Accusations land like bricks. Pleading quivers delicately like butterfly wings. I turn within myself. Imagining a force field around my skin. Deflecting the waves of their violence. Shoving my books for the day into my backpack, I zip it closed and stand from my bed. The rain jacket hangs on my shoulders, too big. Another weight to carry.
The argument pauses when there’s a knock at the door. The house stills. Shuffling feet have moved to see who it is. Your unexpected voice labours into my room. Dread threatens to permeate the bubble I’ve made. I was hoping you wouldn't show. Straightening my shoulders, I loop my backpack through my arms and onto my shoulders, walking out as if my nerve endings aren’t frayed. My parents have taught me to hide emotions. Not to name them out loud. I am too good a student to start now.
“Salaam, Mommy, Daddy.” My greeting lands on the razor-sharp quiet. They’ve progressed into their respective corners. Left to be their own cutman in this bout. I have school.
Your once charming smile greets me. “Salaam.”
I dip my chin. You dip your eyes. We haven’t spoken since you were here with your friend. You look like you were hoping I’d forgotten it. The memory slivers between my thoughts, finding a place to settle between the muscles low in my back, knotting and securing the betrayal you gifted.
You follow me wordlessly as I step out of my fraudulent sanctuary. The wind whispers sharply around us, taunting me to speak.
The words I’ve chosen traverse the back of my tongue and the ends of my teeth. They prod at the inside of my lips, craving to be free. I bite down, holding them hostage.
Tailoring your long strides to my short ones, we walk to the bus stop. Distant. Side by side. I snuggle into my jacket, shielding myself from you and the cutting wind.
You clear your throat as we shift to stand in line at the empty bus stop, measuring your next move. Your eyes bang into mine. Loud. Incessant. Betrayal makes them uninviting. Vessels of my pain.
I spot a bus careening down the road towards us. The orange dot matrix sign tells me it’s the one we need. I look up to you then. Pretending to be stoic, unaffected, poised. My magical power. Your eyes glimmer hope.
Going up on tiptoes, I say into the ear you lean down to me. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend anymore.” Your head jerks away sharply before you shift back to listen. “You are too comfortable putting your hands on someone who isn’t me.”
You frown as my heels drop, eyes unsettled, lips bothered. You blink as if it will make what I have said disappear. I blink, knowing you cannot carry the weight of the love I’m willing to give.
The screeching bus tyres stop in between the yellow lines drawn on the floor. The metal and glass door releases steam before it starts to open slowly. Farcically aloof, I bounce a look at you over my shoulder as you slide behind me.
“Don’t sit next to me on the bus.” The firm timbre of my voice hides the hurt well.
I turn towards the future without you in it, cushioning the hollow pit growing in my chest. Behind me, your short breath working through your sharp nose zaps me like the electric fly swatter. Taking each step inside the Golden Arrow, I fortify detachment.
I flash my monthly, moving deeper in. Settling into my resolve to keep you out, I take a seat next to an older aunty. You step into the middle of the bus, searching. Our eyes lock. I flick their plea away like a piece of lint. Your confidence crumbles like after a wrong move in Tetris.
As I look out the window, the image of us I coveted dissolves with the drizzle tapping lightly against the glass. I know too well what a cuckold relationship sounds like. My parents have taught me well.