Jonathan and Ashley are the normal English names of two people and after church they come up to you and they ask you how are you? You say, oh you know, just doing my thing, keeping myself alive, sustaining this ever-needy ever-crumbling body. What about you guys? Oh we’re good, thank you. We finally reached enlightenment about three weeks ago. You say, my goodness that’s amazing, congratulations! What’s it like to be enlightened? Fairly cliché actually, Ashley laughs. Vibrations everywhere, no emotional attachments, death inconsequential, etc. On Saturday we will make a formal speech about it at our inauguration ceremony – you should come! It’s going to be a great party. We’re making punch.

That sounds great! I’ll be there! You say, trying not to seem too enthusiastic but giving yourself away through a sudden radiance in your eyes. Anything I should bring? Just a swimming costume, Jonathan says, trying not to seem too enthusiastic but giving himself away through the strain, which causes his left eye to produce a single bead of sap.

You borrow a few ZARs from your mom and you pick out the trendiest-seeming costume you can find at Mr. Price. It is abstractly floral and its asymmetrical seaming is almost undetectable.  It’s the best you can do right now. Then Friday comes, and you phone Wanda Bester to cancel your Saturday plans with her, saying that you have contracted the virus (if you told her the truth she would’ve wanted to come along, and her provincialism and propensity to proselytise Richard Dawkins are not suited to the occasion.)

At the ceremony on Saturday:

1. Two bodhisattvas from the hearts of whom shine Real Love. See their subtle smiles and burden-free skin. Observe how they are sunk deep inside the focused eye of the present.
2. Three models discussing whiteness and neo-colonialism in a Germanic language you do not recognise.
3. Laura Dern and her husband The Damien Hirst who flew in from a former colony in the Northern Hemisphere where people are known to consume a product called “apple sauce.”
4. Children: the sparkling ungendered ones of Nadine Gordimer and Jane Alexander, respectively, both named Max. The two Maxes eloquently demonstrate their heterodox schooling in a conversation about the surrounding flora. Then there are also the two Sams, twin child stars unattached to any of the adults present. They entertain themselves by trying to pull down each other’s identical pairs of gratis promotional boardshorts, clambering wildly over guests and furniture. They are beautiful, but the manner in which they move their faces causes an uncanny discomfort in anyone who looks at them.

Ashley, in her speech: “Some people like to say that we live in a computer simulation but this is an essentially anthropocentric idea that does not account for suffering which, as the Buddha seems to imply, is at the core of life. You have to kill me, he says. What is the name of the world? Where are you carrying your water? Many things are funny. It’s funny that Real Love requires the abandonment of the love we feel we want. I see this idea creating sadness, the vibrations wail, but the vibrations are not me anymore. They are only what they are.”

Jonathan, who has forgotten his speech, drinks twelve beers. He weeps abjectly as he tells everyone that he cannot forget love and that the only way forward for him would be to work towards transforming himself into a tree, abandoning his pertinacious flesh. He rambles about the logistics of such a process in conversation with the two Maxes, who sweetly enquire about the unrealised tree’s genus. They reflect on the peace that radiates from succulents. The bodhisattvas listen with detached satisfaction.

Enviously observing this display of precocity, Sam and Sam put down the lascivious material that they dug out of The Damien Hirst’s wallet. They stare at Max and Max with artless longing, their desire for affection having been viciously woken up.

You know from experience that friendships with wealthy people whose frontal lobes are still developing can result in tremendous financial benefits. So you look at their impermeable eyes and ask them what their names are. They are instantly revived but, being ill socialised, they do not answer your question and instead decide to engage you in their game of trying to expose people’s funny bottoms. They charge at you and grab at your costume. They believe that you are the nicest adult they have ever met. You, on the other hand, are terrified, and you run as if from the devil. They want everything; they want to eat you. They vault over supine guests, their arms and legs flapping gleefully. You leap towards an unperturbed Celtis Africana, and are about to pull yourself up via a branch well beyond their reach. But then oh no there are tiny hands wrapped around each of your ankles and you cannot stop moving towards the ground and now you are lying on the edge of the concrete while you bleed softly from small cuts in your face.

The party is over:

You lift your head to see Laura Dern standing above you, looking sternly at the child stars and telling them to apologise. The children whimper an apology and you share a moment of devastating eye contact with them, their shame so pronounced that your face gets wetter. Heads hung low, they get into their helicopter. It takes off with rotor blades drooping in commiseration.

You walk home with the models and Laura Dern. You discuss the perpetual objectification of their bodies and how they have been managing to put it to use. They say: we do what we can with the resources we have at the time. Your mother used to say that.

Back at your apartment, Laura Dern puts an ice pack on your face and hands you a puppy from her handbag that is so adorable you want to put it in your mouth, or climb into its stomach. A debate ensues about the domestication of wolves, and Laura Dern makes popcorn. You watch a mesmerising film that features both her and one of the models, and everyone falls asleep in a wholesome pile. Together you dream that you bite off someone’s nose, and you all wake up thirsty and laughing.

E. Steenekamp is a South African writer who has fiction in, among other places, Datableed, Always Crashing, giallo lit, and trashheap.