his right ear while
shaving that morning, and saw as well that, if he was to let it grow, he'd have
quite a thick black beard. She hoped silently that he wouldn't let it grow. Beards
prickle. Her dad had a beard once. Every time he'd kissed her on the cheek it had
made her skin itch, and her mom had always complained about it as well. So then
he shaved it off.
"Jaz?" Elize's voice. It sounded like someone saying
something to her from above a pool while she lay beneath it. And just as Elize
had spoken, Jaz heard the sudden rumble of people's voices talking at the same
time at the coffee shop, and the sounds of glasses hittingagainst each
other, as if she'd just been suddenly yanked from that quiet pool by a
fisherman's rod.
"Oh, yes, yes—I'm from ... America." She'd long since noted
that everyone here called it "America" so she just went along with the
flow, the word blending into her language just as so many others already had,
merging into one language as if neither had ever been different from the other.
Elize's beauty struck her. But it was a different kind of beauty—a simple,
caring beauty. She had marine-blue eyes and curls of golden hair. Her cheeks,
she saw now, had an almost permanent red hue on them—not from makeup; it was
natural. She was not overweight, but carried a tiny amount of baby fat. In a
way, it suited her, making her even more elegant and soft and uniquely feminine.
She wore a simple green sweater with a loose collar over a plain dress—nothing
conspicuous at all—which contrasted with her pearl necklace and the long,
silver earrings that swayed above her smooth shoulders.
Like when she'd met Sandile, Jaz just knew that she would like Elize,
and needed no explanation as to why.
They ordered drinks and, seeing as the legal drinking age in South
Africa was eighteen and that Jaz was at least two months older than that now, she
ordered a small beer. Elize was genuinely interested in where Jaz was from and
so Jaz told them about Seattle and The Needle and even about Northgate Mall (which
they all laughed at).
"Ah, but does your Northgate Mall have an in-house ice rink?"
retorted Sandile.
Miguel stayed mostly quiet, just listening as they all spoke,
sitting back in his chair, his gaze every now and then wandering toward things
at other tables, but not with an air of boredom. It's as if he was simply
basking in the comfort of companionship and the alleviation of friendly voices.
He'd smile as they made jokes, and ran his index finger over the top of his
glass occasionally. Part of him seemed to be permanently elsewhere.
Almost in the middle of one of Elize's sentences—unprompted by
anything other than the sudden urge to know more about him—Jaz blurted out to
Miguel in an incomprehensibly unthinking moment, "And? Tell us about you!"
On top of it, along with her spontaneous question (much like her spontaneous
hand the day before), her other unthinking hand (the left one this time)
had also now found its way (all of its own accord) onto Miguel's leg ... but
only briefly.
Miguel choked as they all shared a fractional moment of silence
which seemed so much longer than it actually was. And Jaz could've sworn that
Elize broke a smile, and that Sandile looked at her with a knowing smirk on his
face as well.
But it was too late to go back now, Jaz had to make out like she'd
planned the whole thing (except for the hand part). "Yeah, tell us,"
she said.
Miguel hesitated, and for a moment she felt awkward, thinking that
maybe Miguel had a problem being around people and that's why he had been so
quiet and now here she had gone and put him on the spot, forcing him to say
something about himself when he was clearly shy.
But he proved her wrong. "I'm this fucking bastard's keeper. That's
my story," he said, gesturing with his long-eyelashed-eyes at Sandile who
quickly stood up and shouted, "Hai, you!" And then they were at each
other's necks, wrestling over the table like they were in a UFC match,
shaving that morning, and saw as well that, if he was to let it grow, he'd have
quite a thick black beard. She hoped silently that he wouldn't let it grow. Beards
prickle. Her dad had a beard once. Every time he'd kissed her on the cheek it had
made her skin itch, and her mom had always complained about it as well. So then
he shaved it off.
"Jaz?" Elize's voice. It sounded like someone saying
something to her from above a pool while she lay beneath it. And just as Elize
had spoken, Jaz heard the sudden rumble of people's voices talking at the same
time at the coffee shop, and the sounds of glasses hittingagainst each
other, as if she'd just been suddenly yanked from that quiet pool by a
fisherman's rod.
"Oh, yes, yes—I'm from ... America." She'd long since noted
that everyone here called it "America" so she just went along with the
flow, the word blending into her language just as so many others already had,
merging into one language as if neither had ever been different from the other.
Elize's beauty struck her. But it was a different kind of beauty—a simple,
caring beauty. She had marine-blue eyes and curls of golden hair. Her cheeks,
she saw now, had an almost permanent red hue on them—not from makeup; it was
natural. She was not overweight, but carried a tiny amount of baby fat. In a
way, it suited her, making her even more elegant and soft and uniquely feminine.
She wore a simple green sweater with a loose collar over a plain dress—nothing
conspicuous at all—which contrasted with her pearl necklace and the long,
silver earrings that swayed above her smooth shoulders.
Like when she'd met Sandile, Jaz just knew that she would like Elize,
and needed no explanation as to why.
They ordered drinks and, seeing as the legal drinking age in South
Africa was eighteen and that Jaz was at least two months older than that now, she
ordered a small beer. Elize was genuinely interested in where Jaz was from and
so Jaz told them about Seattle and The Needle and even about Northgate Mall (which
they all laughed at).
"Ah, but does your Northgate Mall have an in-house ice rink?"
retorted Sandile.
Miguel stayed mostly quiet, just listening as they all spoke,
sitting back in his chair, his gaze every now and then wandering toward things
at other tables, but not with an air of boredom. It's as if he was simply
basking in the comfort of companionship and the alleviation of friendly voices.
He'd smile as they made jokes, and ran his index finger over the top of his
glass occasionally. Part of him seemed to be permanently elsewhere.
Almost in the middle of one of Elize's sentences—unprompted by
anything other than the sudden urge to know more about him—Jaz blurted out to
Miguel in an incomprehensibly unthinking moment, "And? Tell us about you!"
On top of it, along with her spontaneous question (much like her spontaneous
hand the day before), her other unthinking hand (the left one this time)
had also now found its way (all of its own accord) onto Miguel's leg ... but
only briefly.
Miguel choked as they all shared a fractional moment of silence
which seemed so much longer than it actually was. And Jaz could've sworn that
Elize broke a smile, and that Sandile looked at her with a knowing smirk on his
face as well.
But it was too late to go back now, Jaz had to make out like she'd
planned the whole thing (except for the hand part). "Yeah, tell us,"
she said.
Miguel hesitated, and for a moment she felt awkward, thinking that
maybe Miguel had a problem being around people and that's why he had been so
quiet and now here she had gone and put him on the spot, forcing him to say
something about himself when he was clearly shy.
But he proved her wrong. "I'm this fucking bastard's keeper. That's
my story," he said, gesturing with his long-eyelashed-eyes at Sandile who
quickly stood up and shouted, "Hai, you!" And then they were at each
other's necks, wrestling over the table like they were in a UFC match,
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