Monday, February 23, 2009

Boys and girls: A day at the races

Former Miss South Africa, blonde, tall, widening, with more of a bob now. Almost making eye contact like she knows me but we’ve never been introduced. Or maybe that’s the familiarity. In takkies and jeans, casual, but sexy, tanned. And those freckles women get across their shoulders. On champagne with ice, then still waters. With girls. Girls day at the races.
Mr South Africa: forty. (I know these things) Maybe he’s 42. Fighting it, though. Still has all his hair, and the colour – dark brown. Garnier number 300. Biceps like hams, slacks and slip-on sandals, leather.
– I just think abs at the beginning tires you. That’s your core. It throws you off balance for the rest of your workout.
Former soap star listens in, nods, says nothing. Or, something to the other guy, not me. Smaller then you think, but most of them are. And narrower about the face.
Catherine speaks, though. With jade eyes and Arabian hair, but she’s Irish. From her days air stewarding. For Emirates. Says she’ll try LA. Stunning, stunning. She should’ve gone earlier. She’s thirties now. Gorgeous for that, but LA’s a hard one to crack.
Denim miniskirt and loose floral blouse off the shoulder. Heels that flatter the calves. She gyms too. Boobs, teeth perfect, but the front two overlap slightly. Non-smoker, probably. She’s not smoking.
Boyfriend lurks, heads off to do something. Ignore him. Speak about Joost & Amor, drug smuggling on aeroplanes and gym. She alternates Old Eds and Sandton. Crows feet. She should’ve gone earlier and she would’ve made it.
French wife, forty too. Boobs big, blonde, bum all tight in white bermudas. Tired, exasperated? Inspecting the A1 trophy here on the landing. Striding. Sex. Husband grey in white race top. A1! A1! A1! Off somewhere else. On one of the teams. France? You’d think.
She struts. Boobs too big. Three-fifties. Could’ve got away with a couple of two-fifties. Bum like a teenager. Teen boy? Maybe. Stairclimber. Could be road running – makes face tired like that.
Two guys, the standard hairstyle. For large white guys. Guns. Bench their body weight. Swaying at the top of the stairs. French wife notices. Glances sidelong from the trophy. Chintzy, ball-end sceptre. To the right along the carpet, a sidelong glance.
They don’t notice. Teeter. Stairs yawn beneath them, sucking them down. The one in the white chuckles at it. Green too busy concentrating. It’s been a helluva day.
No music. Only roars of vehicles. And only earplugs for respite. The television for interpretation. Dozens watching intently. Rush to balcony to see a bunch pass. New Zealand run off up the drag. Switzerland won, they say. Monaco third. That guy here in the white was from Monaco. Tall, blond ponytail. Headphones on. Listening to the commentary.
SA withdraws on lap ten. Over. Only Monaco cares. Mr France rushes off. Second? Leaves wife, exasperated. Catherine speaks. Mr South Africa. Miss South Africa. Guns, bench their body weight. Still teetering on the brink of the stairs, chuckling.
It’s been a helluva day.

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