Two complaints, one pin drop

The man again. Worcester this morning. He was in Clanwilliam last week and now he is here and tomorrow he will be at a Citrusdal garage waiting for me to follow a pin drop on my phone. He knew my name before I gave it. Of course it was the herp group. I am loud in the wrong places. I post one holding photo and three strangers in three towns decide they know me, decide they are owed a piece.

I split my knuckle on his cufflink. There is chrome in the cab with my blood on it. I do not like that I liked the violence for a second before I hated it. That is the kind of thought I am not putting on a page for anyone.

Pieter Viviers filed a complaint with Cape Nature. Second one this month. The gravid Parabuthus is in my rack and now she is on paper twice. I took her from his patch. I did. I will not say that to a man who puts his hand on my shoulder without asking, then closes his fist on my wrist when I try to drive away.

The pin drop is tomorrow. I have not replied. My thumb knows not to touch it. I am scrolling past it right now with one hand on the phone and the other curled against the staple that pulls every time I frown.

I sat in the bakkie in Bo-Kaap for an hour before I went inside. The fog came up. The holding bags were quiet. I made tea I did not drink. The house is the kind of quiet that grows a notebook of its own, the kind my father would have kept if he had kept anything. I am the only one who knows what is underneath the kit.