The page I would not sign

The order is closed. Three snakes out, one cheque in, my name on it. That is on the chair next to the phone I have not picked up.

I did not sign the page. That is the part of today I will not explain out loud, so I am explaining it here in the dark, on a page no one is going to read.

Citrusdal. The garage. The buyer's office. The folder was already open on the desk when I walked in — he had been waiting longer than I had been driving. He is my father's cousin. He said my father's full name the way a man clears his throat. He gave me the case number. He wanted me to sign. I said no. I said it the way you say no to a man whose hand is already on the pen.

Across the road Wikus was parked with a herp-group printout in his hand. Pieter Viviers was at the next pump and I put him in the pocket I keep for men who touch my wrist. That is a different page. Not tonight.

The unsigned page would have done something. I am not going to say what. I am going to say I have wanted that piece of paper for ten years and today, in a hot office in Citrusdal with a man who shares my blood calling me by a surname I do not use, I did not want it. I don't know what to do with that. I am going to sit with it the way I sat in the bakkie last night, not drinking the tea.