A Strangely Perfect Night

“I can’t believe I didn’t see you at A-’s party…”

was the beginning of one of the most confusing messages that I have ever received. 

A few days earlier, I didn’t go to a party. I was disappointed, upset for missing my friend’s 30th, irritated that I was sick and went to bed that night, weighed down by the cloud of dissatisfaction that fills up the space of a cancelled plan.  

In the moments before I fell asleep, I had a little thought and hope that she would notice that I wasn’t there. It was the type of thought that is only allowed to exist in the moments before falling asleep or the moments just after waking up, the time when ludacris thoughts are excusable. You’re allowed to convince yourself that you can start and finish your essay during your one hour lunch period rather than getting up early to do it.  You’re allowed to convince yourself that snoozing your alarm for another 15 minutes will not make you late for work. You’re allowed to convince yourself that someone you barely speak to has noticed your absence at a party. You can even hope that they will send you a message saying just that. But there is no message the next day and you can’t justify sending one. Saying what? “I hope you noticed that I wasn’t there last night?” Main character energy. But you’re allowed to have main character energy in those moments before you fall asleep. 

Then, the next next day

“I can’t believe I didn’t see you at A-’s party…”

I didn’t think much of the message, not because I didn’t care but because I was literally unable to form a thought. It didn’t make sense and I couldn’t begin to make it make sense. Given the fact that we rarely spoke, surely my presence at this party was not one she was too concerned with? Every time we did have a conversation, I left feeling lame and like I had really long arms. I never knew what to say so the question of whether we had ever even had a conversation was up for debate. I was forced to relive our most recent interaction which was me, drunk, repeating the same thing at her, sober, outside a club at 3am.

I contemplated blocking her but instead opened my notes app to draft a hopefully funny and cool and chilled reply. I read and reread it before sending off a message that was littered with typos, far too long and disastrously unfunny. I regretted not blocking her. 

We exchanged a few messages. I told her I was sick. She stopped replying. Awesome.

But then, the next day:

“Well, if you’re feeling healed by Thursday, do you want to come to Lukhanyo Mdingi’s First Thursday’s exhibition and a drink? I know it’s a school night but it’s important to remember that I’m on holiday 0:-)”

I wondered how much money she had been offered to do this. I wondered who had told her that I listened to her podcast on repeat and whether this was a Make-A-Wish-Foundation-esque gesture. I took out my scalpel and began to dissect the message. 

“Do you want to come to Lukhanyo Mdingi’s exhibition…” implied that she was already going and no doubt with a group of her very cool friends. That meant someone had suggested that I be invited because, “shame, Andie, you should do it because Natalie will be so excited for this invite to come from you because she’s obsessed with your podcast. Bless.”

“I’m on holiday” meant that there was some event happening that her aforementioned cool friends were exhibiting at and that was good because I could talk to other people and avoid another one-on-one disaster ‘conversation’. 

“If you’re feeling healed” suggested that she thought I was a loser and I shouldn’t have mentioned that I was sick because only losers get sick. 

Despite the thorough autopsy, I was left with more questions than answers. 

What do I wear? What were we supposed to talk about? And, the biggest question of all, what was this? Answers became increasingly scarce as I found out that her cool friends were exhibiting at other galleries and no one was talking about the big event that I felt must be happening. 

For four days, I could barely focus on anything. I was half hoping Thursday would never come and half wishing that it would come sooner. I was horrified at the idea of this being a one-on-one affair but equally horrified at the thought of navigating a group situation under such confusing circumstances. In short: mixed feelings.

Thursday did arrive, as it tends to do. I made sure to order an Uber an hour early as I knew she hated lateness. This gave me just enough time to figure out who Lukhanyo Mdingi was, find the confusingly located gallery, panic message a friend who said I should be honest about not knowing who Lukhanyo Mdingi was, smoke three cigarettes in 15 minutes and spend another 15 minutes looking at the bottled water selection in a nearby corner store.

It started to rain so I went to stand inside, suddenly worried that she had been waiting inside this whole time. I stood inside feeling worried that she was waiting for me outside. 

She walked through the door, on time, wearing light green. I thought I saw her hand shaking but that didn’t make sense. I had no idea what to say so I started off strong with, “I have no idea who Lukhanyo Mdingi is”. 

We walked slowly around the gallery looking at art that I had no opinions on. She made interesting observations, well-timed jokes and delivered perfectly worded anecdotes. I had no idea what to say but managed to bring up my mom a lot. What’s the most important thing about humour? All of my try-hard attempts to be funny were foiled Timing! by my inability to deliver a clear sentence. I was at a loss. Where was everyone? And why was I here alone with one of the most popular people in Cape Town? And why was she here alone with me? 

After one lap of the gallery, we both agreed that we were done. This was the moment she was supposed to say, “everyone is at [place] so I’m heading there, if you want to join?”. Instead, she said, “What do you think of The Piano Bar?” 

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” I said. That was the truth.

We started walking away from the city centre, away from the bustle of First Thursdays and away from anywhere that would be hosting a big event. 

“You know this is Cape Town’s gay district, Natalie?” she said, as we entered The Cape Quarter.

I tried not to read too much into that.

The restaurant was full but they said we could sit at the bar until a table became available. By “the bar” they meant, “sit at this small bench that is just too low-down to be comfortable. There isn’t a back rest and it’s just too far away from the wall so, no matter how much you adjust yourself, you will never look at ease”. I adjusted myself into the position that put the most distance between us. 

I couldn’t tell you what we spoke about (or whether I actually spoke) because I was still processing the fact that we were sitting at The Piano Bar, alone. She continued to be effortless, endlessly interesting and interested, excited and curious and, as always, so so funny. I continued to be a near mute struggling with coherent thoughts. At one point I didn’t hear what she had said and she noticed and laughed about it (kindly). She was far too generous with her laughter and I worried it was insincere. Was she realising that I was uninteresting and a bit lame? Why were we here? 

Do you want another glass of wine? 

Yes.

And yes again. 

Let’s do one more?

The Piano Bar closed and we were shuffled out onto the cobbled streets of The Cape Quarter. Only then did I realise that we had never been seated. And it was only when we were almost at the next bar (“It’s a gay bar.” I tried not to read too much into that) and a waiter was chasing us down the road, did I realise that, in my daze, I had left without a thought to bill. When the waiter caught up with us, he simply handed over a purse that had slipped behind the too low-down couch. She had paid and I hadn’t said a single thing about it. My absolute nightmare. All I could do then was apologise profusely despite knowing that people who apologise too much are unbearable. 

In between my apologies, we ordered far-too-sweet margaritas with far-too-salty rims, sat outside and continued to talk about everything, trying to cover a hundred topics all at once. She continued to keep the night afloat, effortlessly, while I anxiously smoked more than I wanted to. 

And then the bar closed. It was nearly midnight and, once again, we found ourselves being shuffled onto the cobbled streets of The Cape Quarter, our half-full drinks abandoned on the counter. The cobbled streets made it feel like we were in a different country which felt fitting because I didn’t feel like I was in the same world that I had woken up in.  

“What do you want to do now?”

Not go home. Not yet. But it was nearly midnight. 

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Desperately. But where? It was nearly midnight.

How was it nearly midnight on this strange yet strangely perfect night? On this strange yet strangely perfect night that couldn’t end just yet because this strange night had only just begun to make sense to me. 

We spoke about going to places that we both knew were closed, trying to talk around the obvious: we were supposed to kiss now. I remember looking at her waist and thinking that I could slip my hand under her jacket as I pulled her into me.

“We could always go to my place?”

It felt like the moments before you jump into a tidal pool. You know the water is freezing and you’re shifting from one leg to the other, psyching yourself up. It has to happen, right? You have to jump. What’s the alternative? To turn around and leave with a phantom tingle where freezing water should have hit your skin. An anticlimactic ache and a “what-if”. You’ve already walked out along the wall and there is nowhere to go but in. The sea is crashing and the wind is rushing and everything we're saying or hearing doesn’t make sense because it’s just filling space. Then all of a sudden you’re underwater. And all of a sudden she’s kissing you and you’re kissing her back and you realise that you’ve both been wanting to do that the whole night. You don’t know who kissed who but you know that you never want to stop and you are going to want to relive this night a hundred times over.

I can’t remember all we talked about for six hours but I remember how she had moved close to me as she told me what ketamine felt like and I held my breath for a moment. 

I can’t remember the story behind it but I remember her leaning in to show me a burn (I think it was potatoes-in-the-oven related) on her finger and I held my breath for another moment. 

I remember that she was wearing a necklace that I tugged at to bring her closer into our kiss and then worried that I was going to break it. It was the type of kiss where you grasp at everything and anything because it will never seem like enough. 

I don’t remember what we said just before we kissed but I remember every detail of her face, so close to mine, when I opened my eyes. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted and a perfect orange ringlet brushed her cheek. 

Later she’d tell me that she had been wanting to ask me out for a long time and I would tell her that I had always been nervous to talk to her. We now laugh about that night when I only built up the courage to speak to her at 3am after several drinks. It turns out that she had been waiting for me to talk to her but thought that I was completely uninterested.

We now sit next to each other in complete certainty and comfort — no message needs to be decoded or gesture analysed. Yet, no matter how much time passes, it always feels like it did that first time. And I still get butterflies when she turns to kiss me gently while doing the NYT crossword over breakfast.