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Shwarma Cafe. After buying a tall bottle of Castle Milk Stout at the bar, I sat by myself at a corner of two tables, pressed together. Soon, though, seven women came in and sat at these tables.

A very pretty colored woman was particularly vivacious. Though several of them were dancing, she even started to grind her ass against a sitting woman, a lap dance move. Every so often, she cupped her breasts. Being nearly always the most beautiful in any room, she's used to being sexualized, so performs her role with obvious enjoyment.

The least attractive suddenly addressed me, "Are you our friend?"

"I guess so," I smiled.

"Are you married?"

"I'm not sure," I laughed.

"I'm not," she said quite seriously, which I thought rather odd.

Later, the pretty one came by to say hello, so I asked if they were coworkers?

"Yes, we work together."

"What do you do?"

"Ah, we're not allowed to say!" another one jumped in.

"Wow, are you spies?" I asked her.

"Yes, we're spies. We work for the CIA!" she laughed.

"Hey, so do I!" We all laughed.

The pretty one asked what's my name and where I was from. I told her, and said that I had been in Cape Town for nearly three months, "I'm leaving on Sunday."

A moment later, she asked me, "Do you have a yacht?"

"A what?!"

"A yacht."

I couldn't help but crack up, "I don't even have a bicycle!" She didn't laugh.

They were drinking beer mixed with cider out of little glasses. They didn't drink very much. The thumping music was in Khoisan.

When it was time for them to leave, the least attrative one gave me a half hug as I sat in my seat.


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