I never knew when she would turn the tables, corner me with overwhelming facts. Once a week, mostly at the stroke of midnight, Rusty knocked at my door. We spoke, laughed, argued and reflected on things under the sun: poverty in the world, how sugar daddies preyed on willing campus sluts, sexual exhibitionism in America and, now, South African music videos. Our sudden friendship blossomed into walks around campus, to the fury and detriment of her multitude of hopeful suitors. I cannot say I did not enjoy basking in that glory, of being chosen. Those midnight visits took a toll on my sleeping patterns, but the inconvenience of losing sleep was nothing compared to the bliss of seeing her throw her head back in unguarded laughter. It was during those visits that we stumbled on affectionate silences, that we resisted a magnetic desire to kiss. But it never seemed possible. So we kissed on the cheeks, like gangsters, conscious of the itch that got redder by the day. She, months later, developed audacious wishes: that I check her breasts for cancer lumps, for an opinion on a tattoo in provocative places (inner upper thigh, she wore an acceptable mini skirt; immodest silk underwear), a night in my bed whenever she was at the mercy of period pains.
