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‘They’re too drunk to notice. Which is a shame, because it’s Emmy-worthy, actually. Anyway, Kiki, you hopped off me after we had sex like you were ashamed. Like I was the biggest regret of your life. Or a sentient vibrator.’

My heart staggers as I replay the events of that night from his perspective. The way he looked at me, just after we’d had sex, the way his tenderness threatened to break me open.

‘I was scared,’ I whisper, voicing a truth I’ve barely been able to think.

Malakai’s eyes glint, and cross my face, my lips, my nose, like he’s given himself permission, and he says, ‘Well, what do you think I was, Scotch? I was terrified. This shit is terrifying.’

‘It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. Like, it wasn’t supposed to feel so. . .’

‘Right.’

‘Good.Sogood.’

‘Best.’ Malakai’s eyes hold my breath ransom.

‘Intense.’

‘Us.’

I can feel the wet building in my eyes, because, yes, it’s us–that’s the issue.Uswill always feel right and good and intensely best, and what if we’re just rain in a desert? Real, but fleeting, transient and yearned for?

I shake my head, my voice a ragged whisper: ‘What do we do with that? I don’t know what we do with that, Kai.’

‘Hey, guys.’ Laide’s voice interrupts Shanti’s ear-splitting rendition of ‘Love’ by Keisha Cole. Malakai and I glance at each other, before we both pop up like meerkats to see Laide standing on a chair and waving her phone in the air. ‘So my DJ friend is on in, like, thirty minutes and I promised him I’d be around for his set. Can we go now? Kiki and Malakai, can you guys call cabs? Honestly, you guys are running a pretty loose ship. Fix up.’

‘I’m ready! Piano, piano!’ Aminah screeches from where she is on Kofi’s back.

‘Piano, pia!’ the group calls in reply. Mine and Malakai’s chant lags a bit, due to the fact that we’re looking at each other, eyes bold and bright, new light and ancient mingling, forming something mystic, curious.

This is what we do with the beat. Possess it, flirt with it, bow to it, make love to it, throw it out and catch it, tease, toss, play, lose ourselves in it, find ourselves in it, see God, fight the devil, let it teach us. It’s like a cloud formed of vibe vapour. It’s like some of it has raised to form a cloth around Table Mountain, like she wants to groove too as she looks on against a tapestry of stars as my friends and I dance, in the middle of others dancing with their friends, limbs both loose and controlled, body abandoned to the custody of the music. Aminah’s silk press is curled at her edges, hair encouraged to tap into its roots, be free in sync with her, as she moves, smile wide, eyes wild.

She looks to me, throws her arms round me, screams, ‘I fucking love you,’ and she turns round and kisses Kofi and says, ‘Will you marry me?’

He says, ‘Only if you marry me first,’ and then they begin slow-dancing to a syncopated beat, carving their own world, their own rhythm. Laide is on stage, of course, with her DJ beau, at one point grabbing a mic and saying, ‘Shoutout to Aminah’s Angels! My baby girl’s getting married, everyone scream CONGRATULATIONS!’ to her sister’s current delight and future mortification. Shanti, Chi and I form a little circle, shades on, and have all the spirits of girl groups past possess us, falling into sync, head flicks symmetrical, hip juts precise, attitude sharp. And then our queen Aminah arrives, I shout, ‘MinahMoney with the vibes right now!’ and she slips into our middle as we continue to hail our bride, wooing and commanding her to get it, because we’ve arrived at the Afrobeat section, and this hits on the intricacy of our language. We are organised and wise, but not over-wise, not arrogant, always deferring to the rhythm, but holding our own, carving our pockets. The boys are here, elsewhere, maybe getting us drinks, maybe not, but their problem if they’re definitely not. It’s winter here now, but it’s not cold. Chi Chi is in her lilac bralet and black cargo pants, Shanti in her lilac body-con mini with sneakers, me in my white mini babydoll skirt and lilac tee; we are balmy, comfy in our sweet heat. The circle loosens as the boys call us back to our table with shots. One Boy hands me mine, says the word ‘mango’, his eyes locking with me before we back them and the world stops. The others leave, and I say I want to rest my feet, and he says he needs a beat. Our friends ask us if we’re sure and we assure them that we are, which is ironic, because the only thing I’m sure of right now is how unsure we are. Our friends throw themselves back to the throng, at the mercy of the rhythm.

Malakai’s eyes are hazy, and mine are too, hazy with the night, with exhaustion of what this is, hazy with that mystic light. We say nothing. His tongue darts out to his lips, and I track it like a hunting, hungry thing. I look back into the crowd, and I’m sure they can’t see us, so I take the salt-shaker from the table, sprinkle some between my thumb and forefinger. I step closer to Malakai and he watches me like he’s a hunter being hunted, his eyes avaricious and aware, panther eyes, like gold panned from the richest soil. I want to be planted. I want to bloom. I swipe my thumb across his bottom lip, leaving a trail of salt. He watches me, eyes heavy. I lift on tiptoe in my canvas sneakers, press myself against the length of his body, swipe my tongue across his mouth and then suck and then savour. He never needed any salt to taste good. I feel him begin to mould into hot rock against me. I pick up an extra shot from the table, and pour it down my throat. With the way Malakai’s staring at me, it might as well be water, because it’s nothing on the wave from his gaze. Sharp, strong, it could kickstart ovulation.

‘Cheers,’ I say.

Malakai’s mouth lopes and then splits, like the ribbon for an opening ceremony. ‘It’s like that, yeah?’

Let the games begin.

Our table is VIP so it’s semi-private, hidden behind trees, and branches form a curtain, so the night only slips in shy whispers, the music present, but not obtrusive. Malakai backs his own tequila shot before he picks up a lime slice. He steps closer to me, curving his hand round the back of my neck, warm and smooth.

Looking down at me, gaze calm, steady, he says, ‘Open your mouth for me, Scotch.’

An incessant, persistent pulse pushes an immediate rush between my legs, and my lips part because I want them to. Malakai drains the lime slice into my mouth and tosses it, before he captures my chin. His eyes flicker a question, and I answer by grabbing his T-shirt. He kisses me filthily, tongue licking me in firm strokes and pulling tides from my pulsing hunger.

‘What do you want from me, Scotch? Because if you want me to tell you how badly I still want to fuck you–’ his hand slips underneath my skirt and he runs his finger across the dampening material pressing against it–‘I can do that. I can tell you how much I’ve thought about tasting you.’ He cradles the back of my head, his words landing in my mouth, hot and slick and decadent as he kneads into my need. ‘How I can’t get the sound of you coming in my hand that night out of my head.’ His voice is a burr, shaking feelings and facts and mixing them up, making them interchangeable as he increases the pressure of his touch, loosening a moan from me. ‘How I missed that sound. The feel of you gripping me. How there’s nothing in this world that feels as amazing as being inside you.’ His lips gently bump mine and it feels like a flame. ‘How it feels like that’s where I’m supposed to be. How making you feel good makes me feel holy, ordained. I can do that for you, Scotch. And it would be easy.’ Malakai releases me, and cool air rushes against me mercilessly. The smouldering want is still in his gaze, but it recedes, making way for a satiny steel. ‘Because it’s all true, Kiki. And it’s only true for you, but I don’t want to, because that’s not all I want to be to you.’ He’s stepped back from me now, raising his arm to run a hand across the back of his head. I blink at him, bewildered.

‘Kai. . .that’s not. . .that’s not who you are to me. Why would you think—’

‘Scotch, that night at the pool, you said that I was only capable of being casual with you. You said that’s what I do—’ I pause as I spot something on his inner bicep that I’ve never seen before. It has to be new: a tattoo. Numbers. A date. A date that I know. It’s in the recesses of my mind, but I know I know it. I still remember my high school best friend’s house phone number, so I know that I’m right in remembering this. Malakai drops his arm as he follows the direction of my gaze, but I move closer to him. I round my palm against the hefty breadth of his arm and stroke my thumb across the dark imprint on his skin. This was the date of the recce. The recce where he snapped at me, shut me out, where he had a panic attack, where he seemed angry at the world. It also was the date of his dad’s birthday. My hand flies to my mouth, my heart pumping rapidly.

‘Oh my God. Oh my God, Kai. I am so sorry–I should have—’

Malakai shakes his head, and I can see the battle begin within him again, emotions unsettled, rubbing his tattoo as if he’s erasing the fact that I saw it. ‘Don’t, Kiki. It’s not a big deal.’