I read this story in my diary and thought it was an applicable summary of the last year of my life. It’s about the first party I attended in Bloemfontein about a year ago:
He rests his one elbow on a wooden buffalo, and his other one on a box of wine.
When he speaks his mustache jiggles. He’s the most frequent awkward-silence interrupter, which is probably a good thing, because everyone else is avoiding eye contact by admiring the rugby team flags on the straw ceiling or by looking at the dog, Spookie.
I tell myself to remember the scene so I can reflect on its absurdity later.
While I walk home I think about that night and wonder about its significance. It’s a short walk and I’m looking down at the pavement. The blocks on it look like the sandwiches my godmother use to make me. If I’m seeing food in the floor I’m probably hungry. I might not have any money, but there are still some ingredients from Saturday night left. The stale rolls are the only physical thing I have to accompany my memories of that night that nothing happened.