This afternoon as I lay on the reclining chair, angled to perfection to absorb the sun, I smelt the familiar.
Chatty loud male voices, slowly ascending with fervour as the afternoon continues are the precursor. The odd whiff of cigarette smoke, the hand-held masculine jangle of beer bottles and the feminine tinkle of floating ice-cubes.
The thick bag crinkles as it’s lifted, its contents tumble about in accordance with the law of gravity, falling, black, dirty and dry onto the single flame. It’s only moments before I know it’s alive, both on my nose and in the sting of the smoke in my eyes as it swirls, covering them, causing them to water – dousing their flame
All the while I sit here. The hem of my skirt rolled up and tucked into the elastic of my knickers. The halter of my dress undone and secured into the bones of my bra.
There’ll be no goose-flesh today, no weeping clouds to worry about. Only the sway of the leaves every now and again.
This is the warmth of addictions. Craved for by its followers, and once found, free for as long as you can take it. I’m still taking it – patterning the garden with my chair.
Decision time: do I read my book or take a nap? The aromas have matured, the sticky marinades melting into the meat and dripping onto the hot coals. This is my favourite part of a braai, smelling the anticipation. I take a nap.
Lucky