4

‘Yo! What up HOOKER.’

As far as best friends went, the Yam was almost perfect. Funny, and strong like sheet metal, with a prodigious appetite for vodka and romantic comedies. What she lacked in manners she made up for by being loud. The diners at (Not Just) Jazz by the Bay—not noticeably genteel themselves—were startled into silence at her entrance. Gehna, who should have been used to the drama of it all by now, was a bit startled herself. She decided to punish her friend for it.

‘Hellooo, Yamini,’ she said, waving her over.

The Yam had a pout on by the time she navigated past the other tables to where Gehna was seated in a corner. ‘You know I hate that fucking name.’

‘I do know that.’

‘It’s like ooh look at me I’m Yamini I’m so petite and all parents and dogs everywhere adore me and I pretend to not like sex but secretly I’m gagging for it,’ the Yam cooed. She gave Gehna a once-over. ‘Actually, come to think of it, you know who’d make for a great Yamini?’

‘Bitch.’

‘Skank.’

They practically fell on top of each other. Gehna felt that if she could go through life with one or more of the Yam’s sturdy arms wrapped around her at all times everything would be all right. Some people just make you feel safe, even if you haven’t known them very long. It had been that way with the Yam ever since she had first met her at the university’s orientation mixer for juniors two years ago. They had walked out of the dull, chaperoned affair and spent half the night at a pub, shooting pool and drinking cheap beer. The pre-Law faculty, which the Yam attended, shared a canteen with the English department, so they spent almost every waking moment together. Or had, until about eight months ago when the university relocated all the arts faculties to a separate campus halfway across the city. Gehna hated them for doing that to her. She’d even written to the vice chancellor a number of times suggesting that only a complete idiot would split up the English and Law faculties, but she hadn’t received a reply to any of her letters. Now, with only a month to go before graduation day, she had kinda-sorta made her peace with this subversion of proper correspondence etiquette on the part of the vice chancellor.

The Yam reached across the table and helped herself to a few of the golden fries that (Not Just) Jazz served, Dutch-style, doused with mayo in a wafer cone. She caught Gehna’s look. ‘What? They were just sitting there getting cold, dude. Don’t be shooting me that voodoo death stare.’

‘I hate it when you steal my fries. Get your own damn fries.’

‘Can’t,’ the Yam said, licking a finger. ‘I’m on this new diet.’

‘What new diet?’

‘I only eat,’ she said, leaning forward casually, ‘what somebody else is already eating.’ When she tried to snatch another of the fries, Gehna slapped her hand away. They mock swatted at each other like a pair of angry beavers.