Mr Not Quite Good Enough by Lauri Kubuitsile Page A

“Here’s my place.”
    Gorata looked at the three-storey Victorian house in front of her. It was painted light blue with royal blue window frames. The garden looked like something out of a Beatrix Potter book, with blue hydrangeas and yellow and white daisies; Gorata was sure Peter Rabbit would be hopping across the brick path as soon as they opened the gate in the white picket fence. “You live here? ”
    â€œNot the whole house, just the third floor. It’s owned by an old woman who lives downstairs. I do maintenance and odd jobs for cheaper rent,” Ozee said in a way that made Gorata think he wasn’t telling her the entire story. But she let it be. They had time to learn everything about each other; at least, she hoped they did.
    There was a wooden staircase at the back of the house that took them to a small veranda on the third floor. Two chairs and a small table took up most of the space. Gorata imagined Ozee sitting on his small balcony looking out over the lush back garden, reading or eating his dinner. And to her surprise there was a cat, a noisy cat who seemed to be chastising them for coming home late.
    â€œIs this your cat?” Gorata asked.
    â€œYeah, he’s mine. Chinua, Gorata; Gorata, Chinua. Formal introductions are now over. I can’t promise he’ll be friendly, though. He’s a man who likes to keep to himself.”
    â€œHmmm . . . The more I see of his owner, the more I think he’s like Chinua,” Gorata said.
    â€œNope, I’m an open book,” Ozee said, smiling.
    An open book with about 3 000 unread pages, as far as Gorata could see. Each page had a new surprise. He lived in Melville, in a gorgeous house. He had a cat named Chinua. He looked like a male model when he was out of his uniform and he liked Breakfast at Tiffany’s . One surprise after another.
    Ozee opened the door and switched on the light. The flat was one big room taking up most of the length and breadth of the house, except for a bathroom off to the side. There was a sitting area with big windows looking out on the street they’d just come from. A kitchenette and a small dining area were in another corner. Bookcases packed with books filled one entire wall, and at the back was the bedroom area.
    Gorata couldn’t quite believe this was where Ozee lived. “This is . . . lovely . . . but . . .”
    â€œBut what? How can a petrol attendant afford to live here? I told you, Mma Olson gives me a discount on rent and I have a few . . . part-time jobs.”
    â€œPart-time jobs? You never told me that. How do you do it? You seem like you’re always at the petrol station,” Gorata wondered.
    â€œYou’d be surprised how many hours there are in a day.” Ozee was moving around his kitchen, taking out wine glasses and uncorking a bottle of wine.
    â€œBut all this? You must work like a madman.”
    â€œNo, not really. I’ve just been lucky.” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. On the way he tapped the top of a small CD player and Jimmy Dludlu played his guitar for them. “Must we spend time talking about things that don’t really matter?”
    Gorata let him lead her to the sofa, but she wasn’t done yet. “I want to get to know you.”
    He poured wine for them and handed her a glass. “Yes, and I want to get to know you too. I intend to spend as much time as I can find to devote myself to that very objective – getting to know you. I told you, I don’t like games. I like honesty.”
    â€œBut why didn’t you tell me about all of this?” Gorata asked.
    â€œBecause it’s not important. You need to learn about this.” He put his hand on his chest. “You need to know the me in here. And I need to learn the you in there.” He placed his hand gently on her chest. “That’s all that matters. Don’t you get that yet?”
    Gorata looked at this man who