The Day I Locked Eyes (and My Keys) with Paul

Let’s start with an apology.

I’ve been a bit hard on Paul lately. Okay—very hard. In the last two blog posts, I may have... strongly implied that he walked right past my concussed body on the depot floor while chatting to the courier. And that I gave him the silent treatment for an entire week. (Which, in all fairness, I did. Whether he noticed remains unclear.)

But something thawed this weekend.

I read Fleishman Is in Trouble—a book about modern marriage that is brilliant and brutal and weirdly sobering—and somewhere between the bitterness and brilliance, it hit me: for all his quirks, Paul is solid. He is dependable. He is the human equivalent of a stabilising force in a Category 4 storm. A husband who has never once broken my trust. A father who keeps showing up, day in, day out, without fanfare or fuss.

And so this week’s blog is different.

This week, we’re rewinding. To the beginning. To the night I locked eyes—and my keys—with Paul.

The Denim Jacket Debacle

What actually happened was this: I locked my keys in my car. At 6pm. At the University of Johannesburg. In the dead of winter. Wearing the single worst jacket for the occasion—a crop denim number with zero insulation and one broken button.

I’d just finished a psych tutorial and was rummaging through my handbag—which, then as now, was a swirling black hole of pens, tissues, biscuit crumbs and panic—when I saw them. My keys. Sitting smugly on the driver’s seat. Doors locked. My phone battery on 3%. My will to live on about the same.

My student budget did not extend to after-hours locksmiths or replacing a smashed-in window.

Cue Paul.

Enter: Mr Systems and Solutions

He was parked next to me. In a white Honda Ballade.

Wearing one of those jackets that engineers always seem to own. Water-resistant. Zipped to the neck. More compartments than a Swiss Army knife. He looked like he’d just survived an engineering site visit and was ready for a polar expedition.

He watched me for a moment—probably diagnosing the situation like a human spreadsheet—then leaned slightly out of his window.

“Do you have a spare set of keys at home?”

I sniffled. “Yes.”

“Where’s home?”

“Norwood.”

He nodded. “Cool. I’ll drop you.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’m heading that way anyway. And tomorrow morning, I’ll fetch you and bring you back with your spare set. No stress.”

Reader, I got in the car.

And yes, it was a white Honda. Which, in hindsight, was probably half the reason I did get in. A kidnapper would never drive a Honda. It’s too... wholesome. Too reliable. Too Paul.

(He still drives a Honda, by the way. Somewhere between three kids and two dogs it seemed sensible to trade the Ballade in for a bigger CR-V. A Honda is so Paul.)

The Clamp Conundrum

He invited me in, started the engine, turned on the heater, and said—calmly, like he hadn’t just offered to chauffeur a near-stranger across the city—“Just going to tell Campus Security your car’s staying overnight.”

Because here’s the thing: my keys were in plain sight, and Paul had the foresight to realise that while I was panicking about frostbite, he was thinking about car theft and campus wheel clamps. (UJ students will understand. Park an inch over a yellow line, and you’re basically guaranteed a clamp and a fine.)

Five minutes later, Paul returned—with security in tow—and got them to voluntarily clamp my car as a theft-prevention measure. Who thinks like that?

Paul does.

The Calm to My Chaos

That night told me everything I needed to know.

While I catastrophised, Paul calmly executed a three-part rescue mission, complete with logistics, contingencies, and heated seats. He was Uber before Uber. With less surge pricing and more sophisticated music taste.

A Slightly Illegal Inventory

But now—reader, I have a damning admission to make.

While Paul was off fetching Campus Security, I… I went through his glovebox.

Not proud. But also not entirely ashamed. The car itself was spotless. Not a spec of dirt. No crumbs. The only Paul-addition seemed to be a 1kg fire extinguisher I found under the seat.

Because here’s the thing: I had just climbed into the car of a complete stranger whose name I still didn’t know. Sure, he had a Honda. But serial killers could drive Hondas. Maybe. I don’t know. I wasn’t willing to bet my life on it.

So yes, I opened the glovebox.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. A handgun? A blood-encrusted carving knife? A newspaper clipping with his own face and the words “WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE” scrawled beneath it?

And maybe—just maybe—the girl part of me was looking for something else. A rogue tube of lipstick. A delicate hairbrush with long strands of blonde hair. A photo of a girlfriend smiling from the dashboard. A warning sign that said, You’re not the first person Paul has rescued at dusk.

Reader, do you know what I found?

A Honda service manual—with every service logged on time at Honda Bryanston. A plastic flip file containing months of petrol station receipts, with Paul’s handwriting on the back of each one showing distance travelled divided by litres filled. He had calculated his average fuel consumption—on paper. For fun.

And a Map Studio map of Gauteng with a few coloured sticky tabs on random pages.

I checked, of course. Just in case one of the tabs led me to the lair of his ex-girlfriend.

They didn’t.

They marked engineering firms. Places he had, no doubt, gone to for vac work. Or to drop off résumés. Because Paul was That Guy.

The guy who logs his fuel efficiency.
The guy who colour-codes his ambitions.
The guy who clamps your car as a theft-prevention measure and then drives you home without ever asking for your number.

The Not-Date That Wasn't

On the way home, he never once asked my number. He didn’t flirt. He made some small talk asking me about my degree, what I was studying and what year I was in. Then, seemingly out of social-airtime, he asked if I like classical music. And before I could answer properly, he reached into the console and slid a Bach CD into the player. I remember thinking: who even owns a Bach CD in their car? (Paul does. Obviously.)

When we got to my house, Paul still didn’t ask for my number. He didn’t even do the awkward pause-while-I-wait-for-you-to-offer-your-details thing. All he said is: “What time do your lectures start tomorrow?”

“9,” I replied.

“What time do you usually leave?”

“8:30.”

A small cloud passed across his face. You could see the mental spreadsheet loading. He must’ve instantly calculated that there was no way I was ever making it to lectures on time, and that I probably had a friend named Casey who signed the register for me. (Reader: I did. Everyone has a Casey.)

Then, gently, he asked, “Would 8:05 be okay? That should get us there by 8:45, and allow for a 10% time variance due to traffic.”

I agreed, assuming he started at 9 himself and didn’t want to be late doing me a favour.

It came out long afterwards—months later—that engineering classes actually started at 7:30. He missed his first two lectures that day just to take me. And it was the only lecture he missed that entire year.

Then we started dating

I didn’t start dating Paul immediately after the lift back to varsity. I thanked him profusely, got out of the car, and that was that. We still hadn’t exchanged numbers. And then—nothing. For weeks. I didn’t see him again. Engineering labs are tucked away from the main campus lecture halls, so I figured our paths just hadn’t crossed.

I won’t lie—I kind of hoped I’d see him. Once or twice, I even drove slowly through the B-les parking lot looking for that white Honda. Had I found it, I would’ve left my number on the windshield. My only hesitation was this: he never gave me his number. Surely that meant he wasn’t interested? It’s the guy’s job to ask, isn’t it?

Then one day, a massive bouquet arrived at my house. Not roses—obviously. Paul would never go for something so impractical. They were alstroemerias. (Longer vase life. Lower petal-fall rate. Extremely Paul.) The card read: “Congratulations on finishing third year.” I’d written my final psych exam that morning.

Turns out, Paul had remembered what I was studying, remembered what year I was in, and—brace yourself—gone to the faculty office, asked for the exam schedule, and planned accordingly. This time, at the bottom of the note, there was a phone number.

He later told me he hadn’t asked for my number or made a move earlier because he didn’t want to distract either of us from our studies.

Pray for Paul.

15 Years, 3 Kids, 1 Mildly Deranged Bookshop Later…

We’re still in the same car—figuratively.

I’m still running late, still losing things, still occasionally locking my keys (and sense of self) in unlikely places.

And Paul? He’s still wearing that jacket.

“Marriage,” he once told me, “is like carpooling. You don’t have to drive the same way. You just have to be going in the same direction.”

And ideally, one of you remembers where the keys are.

What Makes ReadMatter Work

The truth is, the synergy between Paul and me is what makes ReadMatter work.

Paul is a solid husband.

He is calm where I am chaos.
He is precision where I am panicked flailing.
He is emotionally unreadable—but in a very dependable way.

And crucially, he is integral to this business.

Without Paul, ReadMatter would not have dispatch systems that function.
We would not have synced inventory, costed shipping, or any semblance of operational efficiency.
We would not have neatly labelled bins or courier accounts with negotiated rates.

We would just be me…
hand-selling novels out of a storage tub while crying softly into a barcoded tissue.

It is Paul who brings the spreadsheets, the structure, and the sanity.
He makes sure the right book goes to the right person at the right time, even when I’m off chasing a poetic metaphor or accidentally falling into a bin.
He takes the chaos I bring and makes it operationally sound.

So yes—I tease him mercilessly.
And yes, he absolutely deserved a bit of roasting for the concussion incident.

But if you ever wonder how this scrappy little bookshop keeps running against all odds?

It’s not just caffeine and bubble wrap.

It’s Paul.

If you haven’t yet bought from us—why not give ReadMatter a try?
We’re not like any other used bookshop in South Africa: our books are pristine, our courier rates are subsidised, and yes—we  even throw in free delivery when your order qualifies. 

And if our if our service wowed you, do let me know… so I can finally confirm that marrying Paul was a solid logistical decision.