“I’m a chocolate snob,” she corrects. “If it’s not a luxury brand, I don’t want it.”
“So a Snickers bar is out?”
“Don’t even come to me with that.” She feigns a threat, her playfulness the final piece that releases any lingering doubt.
I signal the waiter, order her drink, and another whiskey neat for myself.
As the server walks off, she studies me, serious now. “Can I be honest with you?”
“Please.”
“Good. Because this whole setup isn’t based on disclosing the truth. I want us to stick to the rules, but I’d like to know a little about you. Something that’s real without revealing names, location, or jobs.”
“I’m all for that.”
She smiles, delighted by my response. “I notice a slight accent. Is it South African?”
“Yes. I’m from Gauteng. How did you recognize it? I usually get British.”
“That’s not remotely the same.”
I smile that she gets it.
“Trevor Noah used to host one of my favorite late-night shows,” she explains. “You sound a little like him… but with a deeper baritone that is seriously working for me.”
“Thank you,” I say, finding her candor captivating.
“How long have you lived in the States?”
“Seventeen years. Since I was fifteen.”
“Must have been a major cultural shift. Difficult at that age.”
“It was.” I push my glasses up my nose. “At the time, nursing jobs were hard to come by. Even post-Apartheid, it wasn’t easy for Black people. Black women, especially. My mother got recruited through a U.S. program that offered specialization and real upward mobility in a field she loved. It was a tough adjustment. Tested us all. But we managed, and made this our home. Except for my grandmother—she still complains about it.”
“You say that with a smile.”
“Gogo’s something else. Sharp as a tack. She’ll make you laugh and school you hard in the same breath.”
“She sounds like a trip.”
“She’s one of my favorite people. Ran the house while my parents worked, and made sure my brother and I kept the language and culture. She still gives my dad a tough time about not being a ‘true’ South African. He’s originally from the Philippines.”
“That explains why you got a little Charles Michael Davis going on.”
I laugh. “You’ve pieced me together like a mosaic of famous people.”
“It’s how my mind works.”
“Making associations.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m the same.”
We pause when our drinks arrive. She goes for the truffle first, eyelids fluttering as she savors it.
“Don’t mind me.” Her eyes open to find me staring again.
