Bromantically Yours

by Chris Brunette

- After a season on the Garden Route in South Africa

The dirt road rushes up to us through the windshield of the Jimny, the feeble wipers

battling it out with the thick orange mud washing over us each time you deliberately dip

the nose into and through the after-rain puddles and pools.

You enjoying that? I shout over the screaming racket of the 2-stroke engine and you just nod,

or maybe you don’t, maybe it’s just your body bouncing up and down in your seat as we rattle

down that impossible, impassable, potholed track towards Wilderness.

No talking then. I squint sideways to watch you, unnoticed from behind my black sunglasses.

(My Marlboro Man. My secret.) Your alert, brown eyes are hidden behind your tinted shades

but I can see your lashes from the side,

Your hair covered with a cap but I can see some curling in your neck. Your unshaven jaw. I try to look
nonchalant when I lean back, take a picture with my phone and share it with Lucy on WhatsApp.
Nice profile! she responds, and I look again and agree.

My Marlboro Man. My secret.

Our path slowly circles the Rondevlei lake and you suddenly come to life as a flock of pink-red
flamingos appear overhead, coming in to land. You gear down noisily, speeding up to make it to a spot
where we could have a clear view of those splendid birds sailing in on the breeze.

We stop and smoke a cigarette, taking in the view, the sudden silence pierced by the eerie cry of a fish
eagle far away. No talking then. I make a mental note, there and then, to take the leap. To tell you that I
like you a lot. That I want to be with you.

Even if you don’t talk to me much. That I’ll be good. I’ll know my place. I will not get in the way. All I
want is to stay. For you to stay. For us to rush wildly ahead, along that rugged path to Wilderness. Into the
wilderness.

One day I will tell you, my Marlboro Man, my secret.

126th Weekly Poetry Contest

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