They
met up at a cafe on Beaufort Street, not so much for its proximity to them both
as for the unfettered supply of coffee from Donna, who for her own part
couldn’t decide whether it was better to fuss over them or to give them space
to talk. In the end she did neither- spying intently from behind the gleaming
red La Marzocco
and repeatedly wiping down tables close enough to catch snippets of
conversations. Her hands, usually so reliable at the rituals of coffee making behaved
as though they were controlled by some external force, spilling coffee grounds
all over the counter and burning the milk in the stainless steel jug.
For the first half hour conversation between Marshall and Hazel was
hesitant and stilted. Much of their time was spent on topics that had been
covered extensively on that previous Friday night but had then been lost in the
haze of alcohol and time. But as the caffeine kicked in their conversation
began to flow freely, their body language relaxed and smiles progressed from
forced to natural. Fresh and exciting tangents were followed as words spilled
like rivers from their mouths. Unconscious cues emanated from their bodies-
leaning in, playing with hair, legs crossed towards each other. Facial
expressions freed up and their reactions became more animated; more true. They
found commonality in music and politics and self-effacing stories, but with
just enough point of difference to make it interesting.
The clock ticked over to 6 o’clock and Donna started packing up the
chairs and tables from the footpath. When Hazel suggested that they get out of
her way and allow her to close up in peace Donna tried to assure them that they
could stay as long as they liked, but didn’t force the issue when they insisted
that they leave. She was tempted to get them to wait for her to lock up, but
stopped herself short so as not to be a third-wheel. So she bid them adieu,
locked the front door and counted the day’s takings before slinging her satchel
over her shoulder and catching a lift home from Zach. In the car she filled
Zach and Alby in on all that she had seen and heard.
Marshall walked Hazel back to her house via a pizzeria. Vegetarian
with anchovies- a shared love of salty, slimy fish. They ate as they walked,
and once they had finished, fingers still slippery from grease and spit, he
nervously took her hand. They both flushed hot and pink. Feet striking concrete
coordinated a rhythm.
Once home they joined the others in the lounge, propping themselves up
on an under-stuffed beanbag. Between scenes on the TV the others glanced
secretively at the newcomer and shared conspiratorial and knowing winks.
Everyone was acutely aware of the situation. At the start of the credits Hazel
smuggled him off to her room to avoid the inevitable grilling, the
interrogation, the debased innuendo and the downright filthiness. They could
wait. For now she would protect him. She knew all too well that once they were
on a roll there was no way of stopping them and how intimidating they could be.
Running would only delay the inevitable, but right now it was preferable. She
could at least keep him cosseted and warn him of the dangers ahead.
She shuddered at the distant memory of what it was like to be an alien
amongst them. They had always been a tight-nit group, even before Hazel had
appeared on the scene. Suffering through the suspicious looks and interrogating
questioning was an inevitable rite of passage, some test that must be passed
before full membership could be granted. She knew they meant well, but like a
cat with a mouse they were bound to go too far.
They kissed for a while on the bed- he mindful of being a gentleman,
she of acting like a lady- both trying to prove to themselves, despite past indiscretions,
that their moral compasses were properly aligned. Improper thoughts were
rejected and they afforded each other the greatest amount of dignity and
respect. They would try to remain wholesome until they were both ready to
confirm this as an official relationship. Never mind that they’d already
fucked, they would wait until they knew each other better before ‘taking it to
the next level’.
These intentions lasted the best part of a week. One more date to be
precise. They necked and groped in the dark of the driveway for what felt like
minutes but turned out to be hours. With lust clouding their morals Hazel
dashed inside to gather a change of clothes for work the next day and they sped
through the back streets of North Perth to Marshall’s bed.
The next morning, as Hazel was pulling her apron over her head at work
Donna grinned at her from the coffee pen and mouthed ‘Did you have sex?’ And
there was no point in denying it. She blushed and Donna lost her mind.
As their
relationship progressed Marshall learned to adjust to the frenetic pace of their
collective humour. Theirs was an uncontrollable instinct to be constantly
switched on, rising to meet each other’s manic energy. The room would buzz and
crackle with energy. From the outset Marshall was comfortable enough to deal
with individuals on their own merits. He found he could tune into their
frequencies and be relied upon for genuine flashes of insight into their
problems, and he became their go-to guy for all questions science. But whenever
they were all together the trajectory rose and the tangents grew ever stranger
and Marshall struggled to keep up. They catalysed mayhem- laughter, whimsy,
unsubtle innuendo, scathing put-downs and ironically bigoted banter. Something
new and exciting always had to be happening. Absurdist games, running memes and
jokes were initiated, lost, and then called back upon when the inspiration hit.
Marshall often felt an outlier to their conversations, as though he was
the butt of their jokes. Every now and then Hazel would look at him with a
concerned expression and place her hand on his arm and let him know, without
need for words, that everything was all right and he was indeed safe. That he
didn’t need to get every joke, that even she didn’t get some of the jokes, and
that indeed there were times when nobody save the person speaking had any idea
of what they were on about. And that was all a part of the game- to see how far
they could stretch a story, see how obscure a leap they could make without
everyone else halting and thinking ‘no, that’s a leap too far. I’m not willing
to play along with that’.
As time went by Marshall managed to ingratiate himself into the group.
He found a new confidence in his own wit and started to develop his own niche
within the group from where he could shoot off barbs, come-backs and improvised
creations of his own. He felt honoured that they called upon his company and
opinions, and he began to count them as friends of his own, not just of
Hazel’s.
He also learned that even within such a tight-knit group there were sub-groups. Each
configuration of members had its own unique chemistry and hierarchy. In
particular the combination of Hazel, Donna and Pilar left him shaking his head
in baffled wonder. The three of them together created something that neither
he, nor, he later determined, anybody else could ever fathom. In another age
they would have been burned as witches. Now they merely burned.
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