It all started out with a fork on the bottom of a pool.
Inside, a random (apparently famous) Kenyan DJ/rapper (as you can imagine, my favourite genre of music) went through his never ending repertoire of songs I didn’t know. I could hear the screams of recognition (from people obviously better versed in Kenyan rap than I) when certain songs came on. The noise wrapped round the club’s inhabitants like a smoky fur coat. Cloying, hot, hairy.
I preferred it outside. It was cooler. I could amuse myself with people watching and smoking endless cigarettes and looking at the fork. It mystified me (and still does, actually). How did it get there? Why was it there? How long had it been there? There was no food served at the club so where did it come from? Did someone bring it out with them? Why would you bring a fork out clubbing? And if you bothered to bring a fork clubbing, why would you then throw it in the pool? Or maybe it was some horrible type of accident – maybe the fork had been a victim of forkicide.
And so the thoughts meandered through my head. And I sat there, watching the world go by. Contemplating the fork.
He came to join me at around 2. We sat there, feet in the warm water, sharing a beer and listening to the pound of music around us. And it was the two of us. And the fork.
As the world ebbed and flowed around us bringing people and snatched conversations in and out of our bubble, we just sat there, drinking beer, smoking, chatting, and looking at the fork.
It was only after a while that I noticed that my leg, which had been gently kicking the water, had company. His leg, guiding mine.
And we just sat there, drinking beer, smoking, chatting, and looking at the fork.
Suddenly it was 4 o’clock and we had been abandoned. Our friends had gone and all that was left was us, empty beer bottles, an empty cigarette packet, and a fork. It was still not until he helped me up and we were suddenly nose to nose that I realised this night was going to end with a kiss. Or begin with one, I suppose.
He took my hand and led me to the waiting tuk tuk taxis. A bumpy ride home with an accompaniment of whining engine and 2stroke fumes.
And so we sat on the wall and watched the sea. We jumped down onto the beach and paddled (and I did a spectacular face plant which I like to think was endearing and sexy all at the same time). We talked, we laughed, we talked some more. And then we collapsed into a pair of single beds. And slept.
All in all, a pretty awesome, flirtatious, fun, informal, innocent dalliance while on holiday.
So, when he turned to me a couple of days later and said that he couldn’t do it, that it didn’t feel right, I was confused. Rejection is not my friend. Rejection annoys me. Rejection makes me sulk.*
And so, sulk I did. In a mature 30-year-old-woman-who-should-know-better way.
And, in a mature 30-year-old-woman-who-should-know-better way, I also got over it.
Although the holiday’s over, the warmness of the sun can still be felt. Photos are still being put up on facebook. Private jokes between the group of friends are still being made. And I sit here and remember too…
The random evening of Dutch and the fork.
*Oh come on, we both knew this wasn’t going to be the love affair of the century. We live in different countries, we’re different ages, want different things. But, you know, it would have been nice to continue where we left off. I believe the cool kids call it a “holiday romance”.