A Meeting in the Park

Sifiso. I remember the first time I heard that name spoken by his own lips. I had been watching him for weeks… months even… hazel eyes that made gems doubt their own value. A gleaming smile that allayed all my doubts and fears of this cruel world each time I saw it. He was standing in front of the fountain at Centenary Park on Leopold Takawira Avenue. “Nomalanga… it’s Sifiso.  I’ve been walking in the park and didn’t hear my phone ring. Now I see I’m getting your voicemail. I hope I’ve not totally missed our appointment!” A nervous chuckle escaped his throat.

Sometimes a city can hide love in plain sight. Standing there, quiet as a lone rock, I knew I wanted to know him. That what he wanted, I somehow had. He was everything I felt I wanted. But I couldn’t know for sure. So in total fear and shame I stood in that park pretending not to notice the most exquisitely beautiful human I’d ever seen. I fixed my gaze a little beyond his pen sive presence that stood there looking like a god in front of the gushing, spraying and cascading jets of municipal water. I could tell he wasn’t looking at the water acrobatics. He was way beyond the limits of this world. I imagined he wanted to be somewhere else being someone else with somebody who would let him.

I remained rooted to the spot. Looking through him as though he were opaque. I wanted him to notice that I had him loosely in my gaze. Enough to make him think I was looking at him, but not enough to spark a confrontation were he to find my fascination with him unpalatable. Also, enough to have him believe a cedar tree in the distance might have caught my eye.  Then it happened. His honey-glazed gaze met mine. I felt his eyes brush my timid cheek as though they were a gentle, familiar hand. That’s all that I needed in that moment… to know that I was not alone in my loneliness.

“One would swear we were in Victoria Falls with all this water magic going on here. Misty sprays so cooling and rich. We’re missing the rainforest.”, I say in an almost whisper. He hears me. There’s an eyebrow twitch. The silence hangs heavy, save for the rustling of a few trees and the occasional aquatic cough of the water nozzle in the fountain. He turns as though to leave.  Then stops.

“Come.”, he says over his shoulder. Takes three steps away. “I’ll show you something better than a misty spray”. I stand there, rooted. With the sturdiness and drip of a silver oak. Only for half a moment. Then, like a felled tree I tilt forward in his direction and clumsily leap to catch up with his striding feet. He, walking with a certain rhythm… I, with an unsure semi-shuffle attempt to catch up, without wanting to catch up… for I love watching his boyish gait.

We cross the double dual-laned Leopold Takawira Avenue and get to the denser side of the park. There, we get to a quiet toilet at the far end of the park. He’s armed with a confidence I’ve never seen before… courage, even. With his right hand gripping the door handle behind him and his eyes piercing through me, he twists the handle and opens the door as if by sleight of hand; everything at this point feels like a familiar magic trick. He turns on the balls of his feet, and then slides into the toilet as though entering a portal to another universe. I surreptitiously look around, because I know there is something incongruent with Zimbabwean law that is about to happen. I don’t care enough to not want to partake.

I take a deep breath and slip in through the threshold as though through a stargate. The toilet is dark. There is a hint of Jeys fluid and camphor slabs in the air. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out there aren’t other people in this room. My eyes get accustomed to the dark and I seek out this figure, tucked away in the corner. His breathing is heavy but at a steady rhythm. “Do you think you’re in a museum?”, he whispers. “Come here”. I start to walk towards him, and he looks intently at me as though studying my intentions. At this point, I cannot tell if the rush I feel is adrenaline or fear. I can feel the pulse in my ears and my heart is thumping my ribcage it feels like it might rip out through my chest.

Two, four, seven steps and I am there… in front of him. His breath moistens my beard and his almost luminous hazel eyes seek mine as though scanning into my retinas in search of my secret soul. “Why were you watching me?”, he inquires sternly. Silence. “I’m sure it wasn’t benign fountain talk you were after…” Before he can complete his sentence, my index finger is on his moist lips. Barricading them from uttering another word. “You’re beautiful. I have seen you for a long time. Watched you. But you’ve never been alone.”, I whisper. His eyes widen. He takes a deep breath. “To be this close to you is a dream.” I continue. He pushes away my hand and leans in with a peck on my lips. I’m instantly Intoxicated with him. I grab him by his shoulders and ram him gently into the wall… enough to command him into obedience.

There is a hunger in this room for something decadent and deliciously taboo. There is one problem. This is going to be the first time I enact any of my secret fantasies of what I imagine happens when two men meet in this way. “Woah!!! Less tongue man!”, Sifiso whispers. “Sorry”, I say as I lunge in for another try! He pushes me away. “You have never done this before, have you?”

“Of course I have!”, I whisper back. “Maybe not with a person but I practise with a naartjie all the time!” He can’t stop himself from snort-laughing out loud. I am ashamed. He notices this and grabs my hand. He pulls me closer to him and then cups my face in his warm hands. Fuck! He feels like home. But why does it seem as though I fucked up this moment royally and he is about to let me know? “Look. This is not the place for me to teach you how to kiss. Also, why are you chasing men as though you know what you’re doing when you clearly don’t?”

Silence.

“I don’t know. You were there. I have seen you everywhere but never thought I would ever get the courage to talk to you, but today I did.” I search his face and in it, I find a knowing empathy. “You’re married, aren’t you?” He nods. “To Nomalanga… who you were speaking to on the phone?” Another nod, his lips pursed this time.

“Okay. I just wanted to know. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. I get it.” It doesn’t take a genius to realise that the moment of whatever we’d intended to transpire has passed. Sifiso fixes my collar, slides away from me, walks to the urinal, does his business and casually speaks over the unflattering splash of pee. “I’m sorry that I laughed at you. I do think you’re a good guy and maybe under different circumstances there could be a chance to “teach” you a skill or two”. I’m sure he can sense my grin from behind him. “Do you want to take my number?” I excitedly offer. “No”, comes the reply, followed by a very pregnant pause. I can almost hear his thoughts humming and hawing about his next response.  “On Saturday next week is the opening of Antoine Fischer, Denzel Washington’s new film. I am going to see the 4 pm show. Would you come if I got you a ticke-…” I interrupt, “YES!”.

“Deal, then”. He shakes his will vigorously, zips up and rinses off his hands and rushes out.

I am left standing there like a tit. Part satisfied, part confused and a little annoyed that he just left without any form of etiquette. But hell, we were cottaging. I’m asking for too much at this point.

Image by Syed Umer