On the beach with us that night were a group of Eastern Cape school kids.
The charming little guy was chatting like a loon on release from the institution and sure sure sure he could hook us up did we want to be hooked up sure sure no no swim hey can he have a swig of that vodka sure.
The swaying girl with him was so fucked she could barely register our conversations.
How’d she get in that state anyway?
The guy with me was at odds. Does he step in? And if so, what does he do? Does she want to be with this pseudo-rave bunny boy or did she not even register where she was when. How does one find out?
We watched him guide her off towards the dunes of the darker lagoon, away from the waves we’d been skinny dipping in. We couldn’t see them anymore. The guy with me was startled. “London makes you forget this”.
Yeah, I know, but I work with this shite for a living. I can’t go saving every random girl every late night I’m out. I’ve dedicated my life to fixing it all up.
I don’t know.
Neither does he.
We forgot about them. Fast.
Easier that way.
P.S. Awareness French Style