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Knees pulled up tight, pants covering layers of stocking and socks, knees pulled up tight on an old pleather couch, in a smokey seedy Grahamstown pub, a hotbed of student partying and old man lechering, a meeting place of two friends reunited through the wonders of Greyhound Busses, knees pulled up tight, heads tilted inwards to share the stories gathered up and kept in storage over the weeks. Dude I have so much to tell you.

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Coming home smelling like ciggie smoke and Hunters Dry, making some fennel tea to help me sleep, and then you and I start giggling, and as you come out with some hilarious line (it was a moment thing), I laugh into my mug and snort, oesophagus not appreciating the LOL-worthiness of this situation, I gag and giggle simultaneously, while you’re bent over double in the kitchen exploding with laughter that echoes through the tiny rooms of this little upstairs flat. Tea stains all over my bag and papers.  Shining eyes. I hug you goodnight.

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In my mind I remember the carpeted floor in your Rondebosch house where our bowls sit opposite each other, a little symmetrical symbol of our friendship, still tentative and glowing, something we tuck into and look up from with approving nods and knowing smiles.

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The best moments are often the ones in which you were too busy to take your camera out…

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