Mom stops by my door, a mischievous smile on her face. Rod Stewart plays on repeat in the living room.
‘Oliver, I’ve got some news for you.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve decided to live here.’
‘Oh really?’ I could also say: “but you’ve been living here for twenty years.”
‘If you want, you could live here too with me.’
‘Thank you.’
Kikita purrs on the bed, pressed to my leg.
‘Would you like some coffee with cake?’ I ask. ‘I’ll bring it to you in the living room.’
It’s the last slice of the guava cake we served guests over the weekend.