I open my eyes and smile.

It’s working.

Eugene presents himself at my door at the prearranged time of four o’clock. It is a Saturday afternoon, and he has once again told me he has to work this evening. He wants a reason to leave early if conversation starts to flag. I don’t mind.

Today he is wearing a pair of faded jeans and a checked shirt. His Instagram page is full of hipster friends of both sexes. I am glad he doesn’t personally affect the Edwardian beard or manbun of his fellows. The checked shirt is enough of a nod in that direction. His hair is short, but not militarily so. There are flyaway bits and suggestions of a curl that hint at the luxurious mass that would burst forth from his head if he allowed it to grow unchecked.

One advantage of the hipster plague sweeping Cape Town is that it makes my protective clothing look like a fashion choice rather than an iteration of fear.

“You look different today,” he says as I let him into the cottage.

“I felt like a change.”

His eyes sweep incuriously around the room, absorbing nothing. I wasted my time clearing up. He wouldn’t have noticed the signs of dysfunction.

As with many physically gifted individuals, Eugene doesn’t have to try very hard in social situations. He holds himself to a lower standard when it comes to interacting with others. His manner doesn’t have to be as ingratiating or his conversation as engaging as those of less strikingly beautiful individuals.

This probably extends to sex as well. I don’t mind that, either.

I put the vegetables and dip on the table and offer him coffee, which he accepts. As I prepare it, he asks whether I’ve decided what to do about testifying.

“Not yet. What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should say what happened. Whether it ends up hurting or helping your father, it’s the truth and it needs to be said out loud in open court.”

I take a carrot stick and dip it in flavoured mayonnaise. When I put it in my mouth, it assaults my tongue with barbaric flavours. I shudder and force myself to chew and swallow. I sip water, reassured by its blandness. My palate has become habituated to my meagre diet. Anything else feels like an invasion.

I wonder what Eugene will taste like. Will my mouth reject him too? Will his tongue taste acrid against my tongue? Will his skin leave a trail of salt on my lips? Perhaps my body will reject him like it rejected the carrot stick. I might have to smear him in tinned peach juice to make him acceptable.