YD6-12 Mrs Stein Said of My Date, Jacqueline is Getting Married

 I kicked my feet from under my desk. After staring for a week at the distant blank wall, niggles my consciousness as nothing happens with my booklets taken away. My restlessness aroused, until I couldn’t sit back, toying with my Personal Computer perpetuate an incessant development, obsessive attempting to master, and a simultaneous reminder initiated to programming by a force majeur–.

Desperate to eliminate my mind interfaces, my brain glitches, reading and writing enigmatic and mischievous turning numbers around. In need to trust my numbers, to stand up to accountants, worthy of my Texas Instruments programmable calculator. By trial and error, I coded in ASCII, savings a little program on a magnetic strip, I outwitted Ferreira Building Material Suppliers. I left the accountants agape, by their complex multiple discount schemes of invoicing. 

I oversaw my PC screen, perceiving my ghostly booklets’ in a dilemma, when once again I’ll function as an executive officer managing construction projects — withdrew dreaming from the distant blank wall, my eyes fall off the monitor, to the keyboard, to my former secretary’s desk, surge as I’m destined for downtown Johannesburg’s classic building.

Unable to hold back, as my mind molded an ideal of the Central News Agency’s nationwide distribution. I uncoiled from my chair, swung hips from the desk corner, stepping across the conversation pit. Face the blatant bare corner of the room, in the backyard window’s gleam, void of the heaps of bundled booklets to a sudden deserted office. I stepped the stretched step, to the floor slate spreading behind the jamb deep into the adjacent room, as opposed to the hallway leading to the entrance door. With the  door swing, clearing the courtyard to the bright orange Mercedes. I stepped across the porch, with a hip swing around the taillight, and keys tingling in my hand. I pick the lock, sigh the windowsill buttons, step in behind the door, tweak the ignition key, toggle gears. My eyesight turning away from the Knowles’ house facade slipping beside the passenger window toward the windshield. Alongside, the far garage doors eased to a halt, untwisting in my seat. I toggled the gears to drive, and steering the car through the gateway onto the dirt Roseway. I weave the suburban asphalted street by the Esso gas station through the eucalyptus vault to Kelvin’s gateway, veering onto the Old Pretoria Road toward Johannesburg.

I arrived downtown driving by traffic lenses to street grids, parking the car, and slotting a coin in the parking meter, heading across the street, toward the canopy cast shade to the fenestrated brownstone corner’s entrance. Behind the glazed wooden door swing, I stall in my stride, sweep my eyesight through shelved books, office stationery, to school utilities. Headed for the racked magazines, an aisle to strike my body flushed in cold sweats. And hold back my mind running for the exit, in my stride gathering my senses. 

The same gondola order I expected from racked and shelved books and magazines, but I couldn’t hold my pause any longer to watch the familiar bright-colored cover Igor designed. which phantom free hands picked at length, to chuck back the booklets on the plinth deeper shelf, resembling a native rudimentary corner, leading me to walk by the swing of the door, but kept alongside the neat racked and stacked Home and Garden magazine. I step from the canopy’s cast shade down the curb, into bright sunlight, jaywalk to the Mercedes. doors’ sigh unlocking, I step in, tweak the ignition, pulling from the train of cars, into the city traffic. At the traffic lenses I crawl by the curb, to circle the block, on to heading outbound.

Not to let go to waste a truckload of booklets, in mind ruminating, hold as I joined the highway’s trickling traffic sweeping through the northern suburbs straightening a run through the open city outskirts. I left the highway to proceed along the Old Pretoria road, pulling into Kelvin. I’m set in mind to whoever can benefit from my booklets. With nervous ants through my body, I turn to rock by the gutter, engaging Roseway’s dirt street, veering entering the gates to the brick-paved driveway apron to park. I’ve scheduled my next moves to play, stepping out of the car, swing hips by the orange rear fender, to cross the apron in long strides, dived in the cast shade to the porch. Step to the hallway with door swing, closing behind, alongside the hallway. The backyard’s glow calls me to the window. I descend the step to the conversation pit, spin to prolong the wall. With a hip swing around my desk, to a few fingers unhooking the handset from the phone cradle. Squared up to dial, on hold with the distant ringing tone. The book distributor’s voice livens, and I’m asking. “Can you insert my book in Home and Garden magazine as a promotion?”

At the dawn, I laze in bed after sparing a thought having shed the monster, I’ve mind punched in the belly, to volatilize, with the CNA book distributor having said. “Sure, we can do that.” I cannot hold my restlessness body’s urge for a preoccupation, to drift, at losing myself from desperation catching me — my claws on the slippery craggy abysmal cliff, while the ridge vanishes from sight — My thoughts on meeting Jacqueline later in the day, I jump from bed, dress, slip into shoes, walk out my bedroom door, to the passageway. feet roll the bullnose a vertiginous descent to the hallway. By the swing of the door, I step outdoor to the orange Mercedes. With an eyesight stroke, I round the taillights to jingling keys. Pick the lock to sigh. I step in, tweak the ignition key, toggles gears, back up to pull through the gateway. My mind rushes ahead, weaves out of Kelvin streets, to the Old Pretoria Road through the intersection onto the highway, cutting through Johannesburg outskirts to the city skyscrapers winks, avoiding speeding up time.  

I cruised among a few car drivers, along the sweeping highway past the Hillbrow Tower, the roadway swag past the Witwatersrand University, leading onto the double-deckers across the railway tracks. Passed the city towers outbound, to split east and westward, around the mine dump, I’m seeking to lose myself to distant memories branching for the Meyerton’s landmark. En route with a sun lagging in the sky, Radio 702’s diverse diffusion, the air arouses in the refrain. “Am I losing you? Are my fears coming true? How I wish I knew. Am I losing you? Is your love really true? Is there somebody new? Tell me what to do. Am I losing you?” 

As I’m cruising, consuming time to flaunt across scorched grasslands the far offside run of the parallel highway from arriving too early in Vanderbijlpark meeting Jacqueline. Enter a low laying oasis, arouse to reminisce across a stream swell of greenery banks the “Henley-on-Klip circuit,” saddled on my road bike, as I faced the 25 Kilometer Time Trial course. ‘_OK!_’ I’m telling myself, feet cranking, pulled away. ‘_Just nib at your previous best!_’ Riding reminding myself along the course, my set pedaling cadence.

By the U course across the culvert in the valley dawning to me, with a rudimentary outpost native store across the stream to a green oasis populated by weeping willows, featuring the double TT-junction, out of my teens, cycling to the finishing line. When I unsaddled from my bike, the timekeeping Marshal, stepped up to me. In a breeze of words, said. “You broke the twenty-five-kilometers South African record.” I shied with pride behind my aroused ego. The past brings back the glitch, thinking. ‘_What happened to the title I’m supposed to have won?_’

My eyesight in the crosshairs of the three-pointed star, to the country road’s swag straight across the U-course I cycled, Across the double TT-junctions, the whitewashed gateway’s wing coved walls breached the hedgerow to the property, coasting my approach. I steer the car up the slope’s storm eroded yellow grit driveway apron. Rotate past the swung back ranch gates to sight the shaded in leaf barrel-vaulted alley. As I’m riding through sunlight dabs, music rhymes to mind. ‘_Somewhere my love there will be songs to sing. Although the snow covers the hope of Spring. Somewhere, a hill blossoms in green and gold. And there are dreams, all that your heart can hold. . ._’ 

I’m creeping through the alley toward an upcoming colonnade, opening the dark wall to sturdy tree trunks to a golden glow sitting on the well-watered fairway. The driveway emerges from the shade to lay whitish bare, the apron to the efflorescence clubhouse’s facade running onward. With the heel of my hand spinning the steering wheel, I’m pulling up underneath the eave’s cast narrow shade to halt in the face of the fenestrated brick wall. By little windows, obscure portrait glazing and high, I doodle in mind the interior architectural ablution block, and on to swing the car door. I alight the car, to step on the gritty apron. Turn toward the rear to step away, closing with the key pinch. I round the tail fender square to the trunk, pick the lock, lifting the lid. Reach my pair of shoes with a shine with forked fingers, I poke the pleading puppy gaze in the darkness, grip by the heels the rubber studded soles to pose on the grit. With a toe to the heel, I slipped out the shoe I wore, and with a finger shoehorn stepped into one and the other golf shoe, while stowing in the dark trunk. 

In the shadows, I reach the shoulder strap, heave my golf bag. tilted with golf heads to light, I spare a thought for the bare minimum for a walk around the golf course. I grab the seven-iron hossel, slipping the shaft, freeing the grip from the bag to an exchange of hands. After a thought on the golf course, grab the three-wood with a clinch, feeling the weight with a putter at hand, saying. ‘_That should suffice._’ I lowered the bag to the vast cargo floor, reached a ball and from the bag to pocket my pants, I pace back, turning away closing the trunk lid, walking toward the clubhouse’s entrance.

With a grip, I cranked the lever, press the door swing, to sight behind a planter screening grandfather’s leather lounge seating corner to a window open view on the green golf course. I step right from the deserted lounge corner, with a flashback of a decade earlier — My rambling eyes on Vivian’s father leading in the leisure of sophisticated people. Vivian and Jean, the best friends, dispersed. I’m left to stand by, lost outside the family poultry farm, and my starting off in construction. Watched Vivian’s father step-up widespread arms an approach elderly men in a row at an offside bar counter. He embraced the high-seated shoulder-to-shoulder men grouped niched in the opposite dark corner.

The high stools were vacant to a bar counter without a barman. I walked past without beaming eyes, questioning my presence or following me. As I’m preoccupied, finding in the hall’s window front, my way to the golf course. When a planter’s puzzled light, through the leaves sketches the far French doors, to step around crank the lever crossing the doorway to a peaceful oasis. I searched for the first tee, to walk right out on the open greens. At the tee, I lay my handful of club shafts on the grass. Rose with a glance at the distant flag, I step forward leaning after the ball in the palm of my glove, planting the tee, released and rise my hand to rise, comparing a seven-iron kangaroo jumps my ball to reach the flag. Chance to drive my ball, in fear to fall out of bound, I bend to pick from a velvet carpet’s young fine grass blades the tree-wood. I pace, lining a shoulder stance with the flag. Register to mind a pendulum’s few practice swings. Posed the club’s head, paced closer to the ball. Ease a back swing, stretch the club over my shoulder, my straightedge flank draws the halt to swing, and whacking the ball, spinning the tee into the air, in harmonious the club head follows through while I’m searching the skies silhouette in flight of my ball.

With a body coil’s back pacing, I’m laying the shaft alongside the other clubs’ shafts, grabbing the lot and uncoil to pace away along a deep-pile carpet from the tee. But then heading along the sun bathing fairway, soft under my feet, the pile carpet under my steps, the grass oxygenated sentient oozing widespread well-waters, I’m breathing the mind nourishing atmosphere, synchronizing my body’s streaming electricity. I’m left to witness if my theory persists — off right. I approached the fluorescent yellow ball, saying to myself. ‘_That was a luck shot_.’ Lay my clubs on the fairway. Instead of a chipper, I pick the seven-iron. Stood by my ball reading the green a 10-meter away, to swing to a dissonant - clack. The ball lands, to roll a wide circle afar the flag, spiraling back missing the hole, me to thinking. ‘_I should have brought a scorecard and pen_!’

I walked back to the edge of the green, picking up my clubs and heading toward the next tee. Ruminate in mind my four-stroke luck. Headed toward the next tee before getting excited. My rule of three needed to play out. I tee off with my three-driver to walk the soft and beautiful green fairway’s length to stand by the fallen ball. I chipped, and putted, to tee off. Again, to my dismay, I walked the fairways, drawing closer to the stream. Besides the weeping willows, I’m facing my fluorescent yellow ball. I strike with the seven-iron. Surprised and out of my league, I’m walking behind my leading ball, the course from tee to put. 

By sight, I’m stumbling through the cottage window small pane across the clubhouse, after cupping the ninth-hole, fingers reach for the ball, rising, heading toward the French door at the extreme. I stepped across the threshold to the cool flagstone floor, to weave past the bar, an S-way past the lounge egress, pulling the entrance door close. Turn toward the orange Mercedes, with the eave’s shade cast across the hood, while I’m heading for the trunk to square up and lift the lid. I heaved the bag, slipping restless clanging clubs into the bag, returned the ball bag and tees zip the side pocket. I changed shoes, closing the lid, turning away, rounded the rear fender. key pick, doors unlocking sight, to step in, pulling the doors behind. I tweak the ignition key, toggle the gears, and reverse with a steering wheel spin, to a halt, toggle gears to drive, and pulling out of a three-point turn, I find myself on the spot of the 1966 Plymouth Barracuda —. 

Jean and Vivian stepped out of the clubhouse, I followed the girls out the clubhouse to the driveway apron, where Vivian’s father steps out the fastback Plymouth. He turns away from the agape, to the wide wing door swing. He stood by, inviting me to step inside, while Vivian opened the passenger door for Jean to step in. I met Jean ducking into the rear of the car as I ducked behind the reclined backrest to sit beside Jean. The backrest rises, with Vivian’s father and daughter stepping in, in unison lowering to the front bucket seats, closing the doors behind.  

Vivian’s father drives away, toward the shaded barrel-vaulted tree alley. She glanced over her shoulder, and through the backrest, the college girls, brought together by business interests, her smiling eyes enticing Jean. Vivian’s raising eyebrows, a pact insists. Jean scooting closer, so close, she tilts her head on my shoulder —.

I arose alongside Jean, seated in a white with golden trim horse-drawn carriage, to high upfront Vivian with her father figuring on the driver’s bench. He held the harness to two white horses, as Vivian turned away from a glance at her friend. The horses lashed with the harnesses, pulling away in the sun, to enter the shadowy arcade. Volatilize in the tree alley to a motley sunlight dabbing the driveway — through heads-and-shoulders in bucket seats to our leading driveway —. 

My patience consumed like autumn’s leaves fall, until winter brushwood. My mind set for spring’s burgeoning hope, across the three-star radiator cap to the orange hood as I’m driving by flicking the dark row of tree trunks to the sun bathing fairway, failed to complete to the flagged eighteenth hole. 

by the ranch lopsided gates, I emerged driving across the dry water veins in the gritty driveway apron, to steer right onto the asphalt picking up speed through the swagging roadway across the culvert, passing by the outpost derelict facing the T-junction to the road sweeping out the oasis’ green swells mount the wave roll to the wavy grassland expanse.

Gauged my geolocation, imagining the southbound highway distant aside, glimpses of my wristwatch skipping the five-minute notches, running early for my rendezvous with Jacqueline. Wayside road signs arouse and multiplied, straggling farmhouses, as the town’s outskirts herded wayside box housed cap pitched roofs, the Afrikaner lair morphing along the way. Too early for my rendezvous, I headed on for a tour. I pulled up behind cars in front of the red traffic light.

Until I’m creeping midst a business and retail center, accordion traffic to halt facing red lenses across an intersection. When among traffic turning off, Jacqueline profiled the driver’s window? As the BMW creeps around the cars standing, eyes glaze on a driver ahead. Touched my heart, driving by, failing to notice me passing me, hidden among a few cars in line, snub, telling myself. ‘_An Aries’ innate motto — ‘Do as I say, not as I do’_!’

I circled town, returned in Jacqueline’s track driving the BMW, to enter amid the suburban blatant dark encrusted windows glaze to white plastered houses. Naked without the shade of a shrub, shabby scorched rusty and green Kikuyu yard girdles, widespread beneath the parceled low wire-mesh screens, descend to the street asphalt. At the run of the low meshed fence, wayside mounting while raising houses. When I’m by the destined address, anxious of the deserted street, prone to a reckless driver plow my only possession. I steer the car’s three-pointed star rotating off the asphalt to the grass, snuggle up the slope to halt at an angle near the wire mesh, tweak the ignition key, to silence the air conditioner. I step out by the swing of the door, from gazing through the windshield the far-left bedroom glazed hollow dark window. 

While my gaze falls back, from the perron’s combined door and window unit to a living room, the front yard to search the fence’s pedestrian gate. Jacqueline prods her mother out of the shadowy living -- reminiscing, Mrs. Stein leading me through the house to the backyard where Jacqueline in a bikini sunbathed on a training chair. when Jacqueline invites me to sit by her stretch legs, on the edge of the training chair. Hesitant of a single child mother. But obeying her grown daughter, ill at ease, Mrs. Stein turns to enter the house. Shadows bustling in the kitchen, with oversight. While I’m ill at ease, when Jacqueline hands me a flask of sunscreen lotion, despite her mother breathing over us. Jacqueline insists, I rub cream up her legs to the intimacy of her thighs, her arms, and body.

While a Hydra head of my mind reaches Jacqueline shadowing retrieved among lounge seats and couch. When from the depths of the shaded recessed porch, crack and wavering the glazing, to figure from the dark depth, Mrs. Stein’s waxing shapeless in a fluttery dress, to a matching waist belt? A mother’s jabs her lower back to forcible pace, obeying her only child. 

When I locate the tubular framed pedestrian gate hidden in the fence, Mrs. Stein steps in sunlight with a strenuous expression. ‘_It’s time you leave Jacqueline alone_.’ She stops at the edge of the perron, with a poor liar’s words, saying. “Jacqueline is not here--!” 

The woman who answered my phone calls, to a fickle relationship, Mrs. Stein’s words stopped me in my tracks, from proceeding by the screeching pedestrian gate. Her eyesight lingered offside, calling my eyesight zip-lining on her beam of sight across the front yard, through the wire mesh fence screen. Her inherent German spirit on the Mercedes, but tumbles off the muzzle, to call out, “Fräulein-!” She returns an enigmatic smile, after reading the black “FRL 060 T.” The yellow backed license plate, like an inspiring mirage, we retrieved back tracking our steps.