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 We're chuffed to offer you an exclusive short story for your summer afternoon ... Enjoy.
Somewhere North
She sits by the porch in the driveway twisting leaves into objects that are indecipherable. The phone is pressed into her lap.
He is sitting on the boards of his verandah twelve minutes away. (She timed it the first time when he said he'd be there in ten. It was twelve-though she never made a point of it.) His back is pressed into the corner, the damp slowly eating into the denim of his jeans.
He is drinking wine, eyes down, humming the part of tune she likes. A tune she said she remembered from somewhere but couldn't place. Some theme song they never worked out the name of. The glass meets his lips and the melody sounds hollow, then clear again as he moves it away from his mouth.
She imagines this, knows the scene well.
She weaves sticks together with clumsy fingers. She stops. Bare foot, she makes her way to the bonnet of the station wagon. Lifts it. Burns her finger on the hot latch and mutters a fuck you.
He would hum that tune, she thinks. That fucking tune. And his calloused fingers would comb the grass. Could never keep his hands still. She hovers over automobile parts. The water, she thinks, he showed her how to check the water. The green slick of coolant fluid, low. This was his job-to keep tabs on the dodgy dealings that happened between the busted metal parts under the rusting bonnet. She could call but ...
Her feet were up on the dash that last time, his hands tapping away on the steering wheel headed somewhere out of town. Pillows and blankets thrown in the back. He'd told her to grab a bag, pack a dress, a skirt, whatever. It didn't matter, he said. It was the first day of summer. It would be warm. Just grab some clothes. He would be in the car.
He'd packed honey and bread and put two bottles of wine into an esky. She wondered which children's story book they ate bread and honey in. She gathered things, random impractical things, remembering story book characters, and shoved them into a bag. She knew no matter what she did, wherever she ended up, she would resent the objects in that bag. Her packing was always full of regret. An impractical bag; a mish-mash of summer and winter things thrown in together, random objects-pencils and paper and dice and sherbet, too much. It was just a couple of days away.
Overnight bag slung over her shoulder, she wondered where they were going. He pulled out of the drive and headed north. The oil, she thought. Did he check the oil? She knew he had, always did. He handed her some gum, the kind she called old fashioned. The kind that smelt of blueberry and lost its flavour fast. She never cared.
Hot and flustered she stands over the bonnet clutching pride and and an impractical cheap spanner, not knowing what to twist or hit. She wishes for wine and nameless tunes, a band aid for a burn, a better car and a man on a verandah, twelve minutes away.
By Allison Browning
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Looking for a cosy New York apartment this winter? Or perhaps need an English cuntry house for your next overseas trip? Then we've got an ace website for you to check out.
It's hot. Hit the road with a bag of fruit and your iron will and hunt down some outer suburbia op shops. You'll be amazed at what you can find.
Put that digital camera away. We've all become waaaay too good at posing and it's now time to relax, stop editing ourselves and get snap happy over the Christmas break.