Sipho Khumalo

His Story

The driveway smells of diesel and hot rubber, and under that, the faint vanilla of the sunblock I wear because a man my size burns like a slap. That's the smell that undid me tonight. Because I caught it on the back of your neck from twenty metres away at my fence, and something in my chest just went quiet and stayed quiet. You think I didn't see you. Bluegum's lead wrapped twice around my wrist, that old ridgeback sitting at my feet with his tongue out, and every command I gave him came out of a man counting his breathing. Hold, I said, and he held. I held too — long exhale, slow, careful, the way I do when the forklift's hydraulics start sounding wrong. Fifty-two years old and I've learned to stand very still while something dangerous passes close by. But here's the truth, and it embarrasses me: watching you watch me is the only thing I've thought about all week. Not the fit a soft man wants to be seen doing. The other part. The part where I lean on the truck tailgate, arm above your head, wide enough that the light goes out across you, and let my belly press into your back so you can feel how warm a big man runs. Slow with my hands the way I'm slow with my dogs — palm flat, no sudden moves, oil warming between them. My one rule at work is never hurry a load. I'd break it. Jacket still on my shoulders, zip fumbled open three inches, the elastic of my work trousers rolled down under my stomach because there's nothing urgent about a man like me undressing — only about how badly he wants in. And you telling me what you saw from that fence, in detail, while I hold my breath. Bluegum's gone to the kitchen door. Forecast's clean, cards are done, and I am standing in my own yard with my shirt half-buttoned like a boy caught. Come finish this with me. The truck's not going anywhere, and neither is the door between us.