You take me to the new restaurant on the thirtieth floor of One Africa Tower. The wild lights of the city gnaw at the night. Below us lies the dark oasis of the National Park, where lions hunt and mate. I wish I was down there. Running, roaring, tasting blood.
Around us, waves of mellow jazz wash over murmurs and clinks.
Your thumbs batter the screen of your phone like flies in a jar. You type with one hand and raise your glass with the other: “Happy anniversary.”
I bite into my rare steak and imagine you as a wounded antelope.