Chapter 3 - Chapter One — Chandré

Twelve years later

"So what do you do?" the man sitting across from me asks.

You mean besides meet strangers online over and over on Groundhog dates, only to be disappointed time and time again?

"Um," I say aloud instead. "I do hair and makeup."

"Ahhhh," Calvin—if that's even his real name—says. "Right. That was on your profile. Like in a salon or something?"

"Mostly entertainment. Film, television, shoots. That kind of thing."

"Oh." Calvin's brows lift as if I've impressed him. "Anything I'd know?"

"Well, I've just wrapped on the new Ofentse Nkoana biopic, DOLLY BLUE. Have you heard of it?"

"Wow. Yeah." If possible, Calvin's brows climb even higher, then dip into a disapproving V over his eyes. "You must be pretty successful, hey?"

Jirre. One of them.

If they aren't sleeping on your couch and asking for petrol money, they're gatvol and intimidated that you earn more than they do. Or they're so obsessed with making money they barely have time to take you out and get you off before the night is over. I swear, the last one may as well have had one hand on his phone and one between my legs for all the attention he paid me. How do you get lost down there? And yet a surprising number of men seem unable to find their way around a clit these days.

"I do all right, hey," I say warily, casting a longing glance at the door onto Kloof Street. "What about you? Your profile said you're an artist. That's exciting. Would I see your work anywhere? Shows? Exhibitions?"