I lie there in bed, turning the events of the afternoon over and over in my mind like a coin.

What does it all mean?

We kissed for a long time, and when I had finally pulled away, it was time to go; any later and I’d be meeting my parents on their way home from work. He asked me to come back the next day – now today and therefore also in a few hours, since it was well into the A.Ms.

I don’t understand why I kissed him or why it went on for so long. I don’t understand how it turned into that at all either. It’s almost like someone else was controlling my actions and words. Everything I’d done today wasn’t something Grace would do. Most of all, it wasn’t something that would happen to me, Grace.

I turn to face the wall and pull my legs up towards myself a little way, hugging my pillow. I’m wearing a faded old t-shirt and a pair of granny panties. Underneath that is my body. Acres and acres of folds and fat and question marks as to why this Sven-looking guy looked my way; kissed me.

I don’t want to be a stereotype in my own story; I don’t want to say I feel unworthy of loving because of the way I look. But let’s be honest, I don’t look the way the world says I should for Sven-looking men to suddenly decide they like me. And with the age difference, shouldn’t he find me annoying and not funny?

The whole thing is a big mystery to me. My own personal Voynich Manuscript.

Every time I stop to think, I think about him kissing me.

I’m almost afraid to go back tomorrow. He might say it was a mistake, and the truth is, I don’t want it to be… - well, that’s not completely true. I don’t really do things like kissing strange men.

And he is a man. A grown man with his own house and a job. He probably knows how to pay his taxes, apply for bank loans and set up doctor’s appointments without experiencing some unfounded anxiety.

The real question is how I was not only kissed by this man, but how I found it in myself to kiss him back. I don’t do things like that. I’m an over-thinker. I mean, here I am staring at a wall in the middle of the night doing just that. All my decisions are made this way; preceded by bouts of intense, detailed analysis of the situation… I weigh the pros and cons and go through the worst-case scenarios. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.

It’s one of the reasons I don’t fit into my generation, I think. I can never just let go and have fun. I’ve never been drunk because being free of the sense of control I have on a daily basis scares me.

It’s funny that something as daring and stupid as kissing a perfect stranger, felt as normal as it did. Strangely so. I know I should be worried actually. But I’m not. I just feel… curious, because as weird as it sounds, I feel like some part of me knows him. Not in that “I’ve known him forever” way teen-fiction books parrot. I just got the sense that we had met before, but I’d forgotten until now.

For the purposes of unlocking this… feeling, I know that I’m going back.

Mulling this decision over in my mind, I start drifting off to sleep. The last thing I remember thinking is about what he said before he kissed me again. That it always felt that way when he kissed me.

It’s definitely a strange way of putting something.

*

After dressing in a carefully planned outfit that I feel conveys the easy going (but sexy) nature I wish to convey but actually lack (a breezy white sleeveless top with a round neck and whitewashed jeans) I emerge from my bedroom once my parents have left for work. As hungry as I am, I feel too nervous to eat, and so announce to an audience of Merita and Luntha, in my most casual tone of voice that I am going out and will be back later.

They barely look up. I stand there for a moment, waiting for one of them to say something accusatory like they know what I’m doing. Finally, Merita asks if there’s anything else. I shake my head and walk out of the kitchen purposefully.

As soon as I exit the kitchen courtyard, I keep my eyes focused on my feet, counting the number of steps it’ll take to get to the house next door. I know that if I think about what I’m doing any more than I already have, doubt will finally win me over and I’ll chicken out. I’ll think that he was mistaken or that he only meant it as a joke.

There was a period of time in high school where I discovered Alexander McCall Smith’s series of books The Number 1 Ladies Detective Agency. My time with Mma Ramotswe had long since ended, but I often found that like Mma Ramotswe’s secretary Mma Grace Makutsi, my feet would on occasion, offer words of encouragement. Because this in itself didn’t make me a strange enough person, they spoke in a Botswanan accent.

“Don’t worry boss,” they would say, and then I would wiggle them. While this action couldn’t be translated coherently into words, it did offer some private reassurance when I needed it. Now painted a pearly-lilac crossover sort of colour, their reassurances offer some extra solace when I finally arrive at next-door’s gate.

I lift my hand and knock loudly.

It’s one of those moments where you’ve psyched yourself up for something and then you end up waiting. I knock twice more and wait an eternity (two minutes) before the gardener finally opens the gate. He regards me with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. I greet him respectfully. He responds. There is a beat. I clear my throat and remind myself to speak like this whole goddamn country belongs to me.

Instead I squeak, stutter and stumble over the few words it takes to tell him in Chichewa that I am here to see his employer.

Condescendingly, he asks for my name and tells me to wait. The gate is unceremoniously closed in my face.

YOU’VE MADE A MISTAKE! I think.

“Calm down boss,” My toes sing. Then for some reason, they burst into that Under the Sea song from The Little Mermaid.

This development only causes further concern, because not only am I not successfully adulting, but I am also apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe I imagined the whole thing and Aidan doesn’t even exist. The small side gate swings open immediately this thought pops into mind.

“Hey!” Aidan greets, smiling and looking very real in a royal-blue V-necked shirt and grey cargo-shorts.

“Hey!”

“You came,”

“Yes.”

“Come in,” he says, offering his hand.

Jumping right into things today then, I think.

“Careful you don’t trip,” he warns, nodding down at the thick black bar running across the bottom of the gate-way.

Oh.

Even though the bar is only a couple of inches off of the ground I let my hand slip into his. He certainly feels real, I think, as his fingers close around mine in response.

He lets go of my hand almost immediately I’m on the other side of the gate. I frown, but quickly rearrange my facial expression so it’s one of pleasant nonchalance.

The gardener half-runs towards the side of the house, keen to get away and give us some privacy. This suggests some rather underhand goings-on between the Aidan and me and watching him, I feel the ‘pleasant nonchalance’ expression falter.

Aidan doesn’t say anything, and I can’t really see his face, so I bite my tongue.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, stepping aside to let me into the house.

“No,” I turn and wait for him to come in and close the front door.

He starts walking towards the back of the wide room now. I step towards him and timidly touch his elbow.

“Hey,”

“Yeah?”

My mouth opens. I freeze, staring into his eyes; unsure what to say.

“Hey, um,” I swallow. “So, what… I mean, did we kiss yesterday? No-” I break off. “That sounds weird. I mean, what was that about yesterday?” he starts to respond, but I add, “I don’t really go around kissing strange men is the thing. - No offense. I just don’t want you to think that I do that. Because I don’t. I’m not just saying it. I really don’t.”

Having waited patiently for me to get this out, he’s now watching me with something of a smile on his face - although it is a kind one.

“I wouldn’t think that,” he says. “I wouldn’t think that of you.”

I want to say that I wouldn’t be opposed to it happening again, but the words sound too forward in my mind, considering the little speech I just gave.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, sensing my hesitation. He touches my elbow gently, reassuringly.

I shake my head. “No,”

“Do you… want to kiss again?”

His question hangs there. If I say yes, (which I want to), then I want to know what we’re doing. Am I to come over every day and make out with him and go home and date Will like this is all normal?

Maybe I am. Maybe that’s what it means to be part of my generation; going with the flow. Living fast and dying young. Acting first and thinking later.

Anyway, to ask for a label now seems premature, even to me.

“Yeah.” I say. It occurs to me that things could progress. From the way we kissed yesterday –taking into account that it was our first time too- I’d be silly to rule it out. But the damage is done. I can’t back out now.

“Good.” He smiles, leading forward tentatively, and kisses me. But his lips don’t press against my own; instead, he kisses my forehead. It’s something tender you do when you know someone well, or when you love them.

To date I can’t recall ever being kissed on the forehead actually, and the fact that he’s doing it now does not escape me. If anything, it stays with me all day, eating away at me like an omen, but I don’t know whether it’s bad or good. All I know is that I’ve made some sort of a decision.