Sister Act
There are two young girls who live in an old house in Cape Town. It’s a Victorian classic, nestled below Table Mountain, with a long garden path to a grand front door. When the wind blows, the loose strands of the cerise bougainvillea flap wildly, as if reaching out to the huge old palm tree near the garden gate. A rusty barrel braai [barbeque] sits neglected, casually, under an overgrown hedge.
The girls, twins in their mid twenties, have a similar relaxed, easy, no-fuss air about them. Their bedrooms are also alike: white linen sheets, muslin curtains float gently in front of old sash windows, wooden floors are comfortably scuffed, books are vintage, well thumbed, and eclectic.
They shared a womb… and it feels, in this home, as if they still do. It holds them both. As if without the other, it, and either of them, would be incomplete.
Jesse and Jamie are not identical, yet they fluidly finish each other’s sentences, comfortable in the knowledge that whoever spoke would do so in
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