I had sweated every day for the four months. It was really fucking hot. And it didn’t help that the only clothes I ever wear are long black leggings and a long black polo neck shirt. And that my cheap jeep doesn’t have aircon. My body hair had also grown to a fairly extravagant length since things had gone sour with, crickey, I can’t even remember their names now, so let’s just call them Disappointment 1 and Disappointment 2. Anyways, this hair situation wasn’t adding positively to the sweating situation.

And then one day, late afternoon, perhaps even evening, I stood on the balcony and out of nothing a breeze ran past, over and all around me. I think it may have come straight from Antarctica. Cape Town isn’t that far away from Antarctica, in terms of weather. So on those frozen and white steppes, in places even too cold for hardy penguins, a gust of wind was born from a moving cloud and a shift in pressure. And that gust was born with a destiny, to race across the southern ocean and past any ships on the way, it wouldn’t touch anything, it wouldn’t lose an ounce of its potency or purity. Over the whales and over the albatrosses — those caught in nets and drowning slowly in the freezing water — to False Bay and along to this ugly little suburb. And right at the moment when I would step outside to watch some helicopters flying overhead into the dense grey mist on table mountain, it would meet me there and raise goosebumps on my skin.

I am sweating no more.

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