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then the next moment you’re shaking everyone in the room’s hands.’
    They both pull faces at each other.
      ‘Some people still do it, you know.’
      ‘Ja, well, bad habits die hard.’
    They drink.
      ‘So,’ she says, ‘how’re you doing?’
      It made Kirsten squirm to talk about herself when she wasn’t in a good place, when her Black Hole was gaping, trying to swallow her. Who wants to hear about her hollowness? Who wants to be bored with her First World Problems when they had enough of their own? When someone asked her how she was when she was feeling like this she was always tempted to yell ‘Fine!’ and change the subject as quickly as possible. But Keke knew her better than that.
    The Black Hole is Kirsten’s name for the empty space she has always felt deep within herself. She had never known a time without it, only that it shrinks and expands depending on what was happens in her life. When she fell for Marmalade James, for example, it was pocket-sized: a small blushing apricot. When it sunk in that her parents were dead: a brittle plastic vacuum cleaner, emphasis on the vacuum. Not being able to get pregnant is the size of a tightly formed fist, which free-floats around inside her body but is mostly lodged between her ribcage and her heart. Sometimes the hole grows or narrows inexplicably, and makes her wonder if there is another version of her walking around, falling in and out of love and otherwise experiencing the rollercoaster of (a parallel) life.  She has always had The Black Hole, it is part of who she is, and it hurts her insides just thinking that she will most likely carry it to her grave.
      Keke, sensing her discomfort, says: ‘Your plants are doing well.’
      ‘Yes,’ says Kirsten, looking around as if she had forgotten they were there. ‘They’re happy.’
      ‘Happy may be an understatement. Your flat is a veritable jungle.’
      Kirsten laughs. ‘It’s not.’
      ‘It is! There’s a lot of fucking oxygen in here. Do you even remember what colour the walls are?’
      ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
      ‘If I ever run out of news stories I’m going to come back here and do an ultra-reality segment on you. The crazy plant lady. Living in a Jozi Jungle. Madame Green Fingers.’
      ‘Ha,’ says Kirsten.
    Keke puts on her important-news-headline voice: ‘Most lonely women get cats, but Kirsten Lovell is a fan of … flora.’
      ‘Ha. Ha.’
      ‘Most hoarders are content with keeping mountains of old take-away containers, but this woman can’t get enough of The Green Stuff.’
      ‘That makes me sound like a weed-vaper.’
      ‘Her neighbours called the authorities when the vines began creeping through the walls and into their kitchens … it was clear: time for an intervention.’
      ‘Okay, hilarious. You can stop now.’
      ‘Really? I was having fun.’
      ‘I could tell.’
      ‘It started off innocently, you know. A fern here, an orchid there.’
      ‘Ah, yes, those orchids. Gateway plants.’
      They smile at each other. Kirsten is surprised at how grateful she is for the company.
      ‘Earl Grey.’
      ‘Er, what?’
      ‘The colour of the walls,’ says Kirsten. ‘Earl Grey. The colour you get in your head when you taste bergamot.’
      ‘You’d better not say that on camera. They’ll cart you off to somewhere you can’t hurt yourself.’
      ‘Hm. That doesn’t sound too bad.’
    Keke leans forward again. Business time.
      ‘So. Is there any news from your side about the … burglary – from the cops? Any leads?’
    Kirsten shakes her head.
      ‘ Niks nie.’
    God, she hates talking about it, thinking about it. Pictures, unbidden, flash in on her mind. The broken glass and splinters on the floor, the up-ended furniture. Pillows ripped apart. The hungry-looking safe wrenched open and plundered.
    The blood was the worst. There wasn’t a lot of it – in a kind of detached way she had noticed how little actual blood