Warm fuzzy feelings

It’s a fine Saturday night in Cape Town, just before the start of my final year at university. I’m in a right strop because I have to go to a dull party – can’t get out of it because I ran into the host earlier and, not having a good excuse to hand, had to say ‘but of course I’ll be there’. And I have no one to go with*.

‘Go, it’ll be fune, maybe you’ll meet a guy,’ say flatmates helpfully. ‘Not at this party,’ I sniff. But I get all dressed up, complain loudly about how fabulous I look (I’m having a thin week) and with no one to appreciate me, and trot off.

Six hours later, I’m back home. With a boy. I’m feeding him hot chocolate and, under the ultra-flimsy pretext of wanting to read my short stories, he’s getting my phone number. He finishes the drink, leans in and kisses me goodnight – a light, luscious, deeply sexy kiss. He leaves.

I don’t sleep a wink.

Next morning, the flatmates have to laugh at me because I’m sitting in my dressing gown, staring into space with the goofiest grin you can imagine. There’s a photo to prove it. This continues for some time. Because I know, with unreasonable and unshakeable certainty, that this is It. This is my partner for the rest of my life.

It’s now 2,922 days, and manymany sexy kisses, later. It’s our eighth anniversary.

I am very happy.

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*And thereby hangs a tale. But not for publication.