The wives of Tamanuitera

Ma lives in Raumati, a 45-minute drive from the city.

- BY TAYI TIBBLE

She wears bare feet, denim and tiny crochet halter tops she bought from a $2 bin in Raglan. She walks dogs for a living, and has a lab called Artemis and a staffy called Rex. Her house is two minutes from the beach and her furniture is always coated with dog hair and sand.

Ma likes to cook elaborate vegetarian dinners. Every Thursday she gets a box of organic veges delivered from a coop she volunteers at, but from her 10am cigarette until she passes out in front of the TV in the evening she drinks the cheapest beer, whatever is available from the Four Square.

She likes to fuck on the sofa in the afternoon's bright sun. She does yoga. She is proud to the point of being unaware of her body. Tama has only ever bought her one gift: a pounamu heart on a black cord — just a cheap, overproduced one for tourists which he bought at the airport on his way back from Queenstown, but he never enjoyed giving a gift as much as he enjoyed giving his heart to her.

Tama likes her because she doesn't wear makeup, which means that Ma has an ease about herself that is refreshing. You can put her on a bike, dip her in the ocean, hose her off and leave her to dry in the garden, then take her out to the pub with no fuss or friction. Her face is freckled and a little tough from the sun. She is warm and supple, like good worn leather.

When they met, he couldn't tell if she was 21 or 45. She was standing on her chair at the pub and singing What Becomes of The Brokenhearted. When she finished, everyone applauded her, including Tama. He watched her move around the room. Everyone basked in her like good weather. Finally, a friend put a drunk arm around him and said “Do you even know who this guy is?” The bar turned toward him and recognised him, including Ma. Her smile was like white heat, aimed directly at him.