Blood on the Cufflink

He knew where to put his hand. That is the part I keep replaying. Not that he stepped into the road — that is just stupid men being stupid. He saw the bandage, and he reached through my open window and he found the bite under the gauze and he squeezed until my ears filled with a kind of white nothing. He knew. Someone told him where it was.

My blood is on his cufflink. I drove away with that on my conscience or whatever I have instead of one. I keep thinking about the cufflink. I keep thinking about the fact that I did not get out of the bakkie. I should have. I did not.

Pieter's third one names my dad's cousin. Has a file number on it. A file number. Not a complaint, a docket. Someone, somewhere, has the folder open. I sat in the dark with the phone lighting up the cab and thought: so this is the bit where it catches up.

Tomorrow I take the female out. I have been telling myself for a week that I am keeping her because the humidity is right. I am keeping her because I am not ready to drive home with an empty back seat. That is a stupid sentence and it is true and I am writing it down because no one will read this.

Oom Karel did not charge me. He said "no charge" like it was nothing. I do not know what to do with kindness that does not want anything back. I sat with the coffee and felt like a smaller person than I want to be. I wanted to pay him. I wanted to make it a transaction so I could leave clean. He would not let me.