Moira smiles as though this is what she’s wanted all along. I tell her to let me look at it before she posts anything, and pour myself more whisky.

Has this rape made me sexually disabled? I won’t say I haven’t considered that possibility. I’ve read enough blogs to know that most victims struggle to be comfortable in sexual situations. It takes years for some to get over their fear and anxiety. Some never do. It takes a special kind of partner to have the patience to negotiate the minefield that is sex with a rape victim. One step forward. Two steps back. I know what to expect. How even if you think you’re fine, you’re over it, your body will betray you with some physical manifestation of PTSD.

It all sounds too tedious for words. I want to skip ahead to the part where I’m okay again.

“Looking for adventurous man to break dry spell with,” Moira reads. “City Bowl area. Must be single and under forty. Cultural background not important.”

“Well, that’s nothing if not frank. Woman seeks man for sex. Any man.”

“Shall I post it?”

I try to give this the consideration it deserves. My mind feels like a radio that can’t tune in to any station. It’s all just loud static and occasional flickers of coherence. I feel entirely detached from the consequences of this decision. Nothing can affect me. I’m safe in my bubble of static.

“No.”

That’s odd. I meant to say yes.

“No? Really?” Moira sags.

“Write it again. Properly this time.”

“You write it. I’m going to get us some chips.”

She shoves the phone into my hand and heads for the front door, staggering slightly. I hope she isn’t planning to drive. My mouth wants to warn her, but my brain isn’t working properly. It’ll be fine. There’s a twenty-four-hour garage shop one block away.

I stare at the phone in my hand, willing it to come into focus. How would I present myself on a dating site? What aspects of myself would I choose to highlight in order to attract a potential mate?

John Coetzee’s Lucy doesn’t have this problem. When we leave her, she is happily pregnant, expecting the Messiah child that will be unburdened by the original sin of South Africa’s grotesque past. She is farming the land with quiet, sturdy competence, working side by side with the men who raped her to create a better future for our country.

Her future as a sexual being isn’t even hinted at. All we can assume is that, like everything else in her life, sex will be wholesome. Her father looks on with uncomprehending awe, aware that he is nowhere near as evolved as she is.