In another twist involving the public protector’s office‚ the Minister of Co-operative Governance an.
It's our fortnight ritual that has become as sickening as it is mesmeric.
What normally starts off as a cosy afternoon in front of the television somehow finds a way to lead to one fight or another. There is a slamming of doors before one of us leaves in a huff!
He takes his clothes, guitar and CDs and I change the security code to my house, all the while calling him unprintable names.
I have loads of scented candles and incense that I was assured would help my aura get rid of the bastard. My jerk in shining armour I think to myself as foams of perfumed fizz balls threaten to drown me.
I soak up the goodness of my aroma therapeutic bath salts as the Ben Folds Five sing: "Give me my money back, you bitch. I want my money back. And don't forget to give me back my black T-shirt..."
At his place I'm sure things are slightly different. He must be playing India Arie's lame: "If Jesus can forgive crucifixion surely we can survive and find resolution..." He thinks he can walk on water.
But I'm not his project and I want my T-shirt back. And then it dawns on me that, hell no, I actually want my Zola 7 T-shirt before he dies, which I'm hoping will happen in the next few hours.
Clearly I'm more derailed than I care to admit. But he makes me wish death upon him.
How can something so precious turn into such stinking, simmering hatred? How does a product of nonstop cultivation become a ticking time bomb all the time?
We are forever trying to resuscitate the relationship.
And I'm sure the universe is cracking itself up with this game because something always seems to happen to bring us back together again.
There should to be a rehab for failed relationships. In this spirit, I wait for his acceptance or rejection of my call.
When he answers I'm going to tell him to drop the T-shirt off at a friend's place. It's a long drive but I'll be damned if he will keep it, though he paid for R350 worth of petrol for me last night.
I should have told him so many things. Such as: Neat freaks like you are nothing but cheap crooks desperate to clean up behind themselves instead of cleaning their souls.
He answers. He's calm and he listens without prejudice.
My heart melts when I hear him laugh at my lame joke. I tell him that I want my old skipper, which I left at his place, as a way of marking my territory.
He corrects me that it's called T-shirt. Always the smart pants, but who cares about a stupid T-shirt when we have Friday night?
I hang up and head straight for the candles.
Candles are such a nuisance. They spill on every surface and it's never a normal stain. And what the hell is that nauseating smell in the bathroom?
On the phone he ended our conversation by saying that we met for a good reason.
"For you to learn patience and cordiality and for me to adopt the sense of the pace of life and to stand up for myself."
A week later we are in each other's arms, something that is always kept floating above the real surface of it all. We operate on that thin layer when we know the bottom carries slime, holes and froth.
In the background Macy Gray sings: "I may appear to be free, but I'm just a prisoner of your love..."
Soon we are entangled in mind-blowing passion. No issues discussed, no apologies and no promises. We try again.
Then we write a song about the chagrin we call our relationship. I tell him he inspires me and he tells me I inspire him more.
I blush and walk away to play our song.
He thinks I sing like Mariah Carey, that maybe I should do gospel music. My nose flares and I retire to my bed. What is it with men and shooting from their arses? But I love him, though my friends won't hear of it.
In the morning the sun's rays pierce the thin blinds of my bedroom and his body is warm and exhausted next to mine.
Come to think of it, he ain't that handsome, but he makes life blissful. So glad he didn't die the other night.