“The daddy?” This time it’s my husband who is stumped[9]. “My father is at home.”
The officer considers us. The thought of a fine keeps my lips clamped together.[10]
“Well, look after the mother,” he orders my husband before waving us on.
“He thought you were my son!” I say crossly, as soon as the driver’s window is safely sealed.[11] I turn and glare at my husband. “Can’t you stop looking like you’re 16 years old?”
“I don’t look 16,” he says mildly.
I study his profile[12]: not the hint of a wrinkle there. I wonder: Has he been secretly smoothing on the face cream my sister faithfully sends me? If so, it must work better on him than it ever has on me.
“You do,” I am forced to concede[13]. “Seventeen at the very most.”
My husband looked boyish when I first set eyes on him more than 10 years ago. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love. I’d just gotten off a long-haul flight from Paris, stumbled into an office in Harare, and there, behind the first desk I came across, was a ravishingly handsome man with thick dark curls and brown eyes.[14]
Six months and a bit later we were married.
Together we’ve weathered Zimbabwe’s long-running economic and political crisis, raised a son (and six cats), nurtured friendships, cherished two cottages, and argued over literature in the flickering candlelight characteristic of many an electricity-less evening here.[15] All of these are things you’d think would leave their mark on a man. Not on my husband, it seems. He has stayed boyish.
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