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28 Café Neo So there we sat on the wooden deck, with two red-winged starlings and the mist rolling in from the rocks. I pushed my full bag under the spindly chair, forcing it to give nothing away. You showed me your website, brimming with complexities; brushing dust from the laptop screen. I held the Windhoek lager coolly erect; your green eyes sized me up through the combatative clink. 29 You pointed out the lighthouse, explaining how it beams code to the ships beyond Robben Island, warning them of danger on the reefs. We ate olives, dipped warm pita bread in hummus, tried the tzatsiki. Your voice hummed like a ship’s engine, as you showed me a photograph of your mother, her face wry with an unknown sadness. You signed the bill, carefully, as if writing poetry. We kissed goodbye. ...

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