To survive this night, you need a body—someone with something that gets something in you moving. The hall is packed with people; everyone loves a wedding afterparty. 

You scan the people from your seat while holding a can of ginger stout.

The warmth in your belly has spread to your head, making you both blurred and sharp. Blurred around the edges of shyness and sharp about exactly what you want—someone with something that gets something in you moving.

When you see him for the first time, it’s the expanse of his shoulders and the way his head moves to the music that grabs your attention. “Turn around, damn it”, you mutter. Right on cue, he does. And the warmth in your body turns cold, then warmer. 

He is looking right at you, and you look back, one eyebrow raised to match his smirk. And then you do something you have never done before: you point at him and make a come-here gesture. 

He walks towards you in quick strides, and the first thing he says when you are face to face is, “You called.” You grab his face and say, “You came.”

It is unclear who takes who, but you both end up on the dance floor, swaying your hips together and rubbing on each other like you have been doing this for years. 

When the music stops, and the party starts winding down, you say your goodbyes to your people, then meet each other outside. 

The wedding was held on a beach/garden property, and you ask him if he wants to go for a walk on the beach. He nods.

You take off your heels and wear slides. He takes your shoes in his left hand and intertwines his right fingers with your left.

In step, you walk together, humming to songs - Love My Baby, All Over, Charm, Soso, If, Duro, Mad Over You.

When you get to the beach, you share a swing, leaning into each other, eyes closed, letting the salt air do all the talking. 

Magic is made of quiet, unexpected moments like these: two people, new to each other, participating in a push-and-pull older than the sand on the beach, and perhaps time itself.

It occurs to you that you don’t know his name, so you ask.

“Andem”, he says.

“Kebe”, you reply.

He repeats your name twice, the first time like the start of a prayer, the second time like an Amen.

The silence resumes, comfortable between your skins. 

You sit like that till your phone vibrates. You check, and it’s your wake-up-for-work alarm. In your country of residence, the morning was already stretching, waking everyone up. In this country, your alarm is a reminder that you have to leave. 

Grief has many forms, and one of the most painful forms is having to leave someone you just found. 

You turn to speak, but Andem takes your phone out of your hand and quietly says, “5 more minutes, please.” The please is soft but it falls heavy on your lap, pinning you in place, pushing you into his arms again. 

To survive this night, you were only searching for a body. But from the look of things, you might have found a home. Andem feels incredibly familiar, yet you know nothing but his name. Still,  sometimes a name is enough- an opening - a salve - a reminder that there is always more, even if it lasts for a second or ten thousand more, a couple of hours between evening and the breaking dawn or only for a fast afternoon. 

With heavy effort, you get down from the swing and tug at Andem’s hand. He picks up your shoes, you pick up your purse, and you both walk to the car park.

You tell him your hotel address, and he eases the car out of the property into the road. The car ride there is soft and filled with shy glances/smiles/giggles. Occasionally, you poke his cheek just to see his face break open into a grin/smile. You are mentally saving each smile/grin because something tells you this night/morning may never happen again. 

Andem pulls up in front of the hotel gate. He cuts off the engine, takes your hand, leans over and kisses your cheek- ‘Thank you, Kebe. Sleep well.’You turn your face so your lips kiss his palm, then you take a deep breath, grab your shoes and purse and get out of the car.

As you walk towards the hotel reception, you feel his eyes on you, so you turn and give a final wave, taking in the way his eyes shine as he waves back.

The light in his eyes is the last thing you see before you sleep.

And when you get on the plane, somewhere in the sky, surrounded by orange-tinged clouds, you whisper “Thank you Andem”.