Chapter 20: Icecream and Flowers

The tattered vinyl stuck to the sweat on Marshall’s back. The air hung sour with the stench of the thousand passengers that had braved the bus over the course of the day. It had been a scorcher. Those who weren’t hiding away under air conditioning were at the beach, and those not at the beach roasted like spit-pigs in the shade. The doctor had arrived as regular as clockwork, but it had been so weak that the city remained suffocated beneath the stagnant heat. Black cliffs cloaked the sun ominously just off the coast and wet the air until it threatened to burst apart.

All the windows were open and the ancient air conditioning was chugging and shaking overhead but still the air inside the bus was clammy. Rivulets of sweat ran down faces, backs and legs. His mouth hung limply open like a magpie on a hot day. Marshall leant forward to peel his shirt from the vinyl, the two surfaces eliciting a disgusting muted rip.

Businesses drifted by through the haze as the bus crept slowly through the Mount Lawley snarl. Water from the air conditioner smeared down the bus windows, splashing through an open window onto the seat beneath and down onto the floor until it was transformed into a river that flowed backwards as the bus cleared the congestion. The disgruntled mob hurriedly lifted their bags beyond the streams.

Marshall hit the button and the bus slowed to a standstill. He swung his satchel over his shoulder and water flicked onto the seat next to him. The middle-aged woman looked at him with venom and Marshall shrugged an apology that was probably rejected, but he was already down the steps and out onto the footpath. He judged the speed of the oncoming cars and dashed behind the bus to the median strip, then on to the other side of the road. A van blew its horn.

He strode quickly along the footpath, his gaze flitting absently between passing cars, shop windows and the path ahead. The glass doors of the supermarket swished open and he was hit by a refrigerated blast. He opened his mouth to taste the air as it rushed past his teeth. He headed straight to the freezer section at the back, smiling as goosebumps coated his bared arms and legs. After mulling the options he selected a tub of triple choc swirl, then opened the fridge door adjacent and pulled out a large glass bottle of ginger beer. With his cargo chilling his armpits he took up a place at the end of the cue. As an after thought he picked out a posy of carnations.

The teenager who served him was suitably surly and the lack of even a glimmer of conversation suited him fine. He accepted his change and receipt, declined a bag and walked out the door, awkwardly stuffing the icecream and drink into his satchel with the flowers tucked under his arm.

He crossed the road again, more carefully this time, and followed the zigzag paving through the community centre and the car park beyond. Thunder growled in the distance and the sky half-heartedly spat down infrequent marble-sized drops. He stepped up his pace, but by the time he reached the house the rain had retreated as though god had only sneezed.

One side of a conversation drifted through Hazel’s window. Pilar was sprawled out on the tattered couch beneath the awning, Naomi Klein in her hands and bottle of white on the table, sans glass. She smiled ruefully over the top of the book.

“Hey. How you doin'?”

“Mmm. OK. That looks intimidating.”

“Yeah, it’s a big’n.”

”How is she?” he asked, concerned.

“Dunno. She sounds pretty upset.”

“Hmmm.” They both looked at the bricks forming the outside of Hazel’s bedroom wall. “It sucks.”

“Yeah. Poor thing.”

They sighed and grimaced smiles; Marshall continued to the door and Pilar returned to the sentence indicated by her finger. The door was swung wide open to allow what breeze there was to trickle in and cool the house, even if only imagined. He knocked softly on Hazel’s door and opened it enough to stick his head through. Tissues were strewn across the unmade bed and clothes formed discrete piles throughout the room. A stiff green suitcase was open on the bed with an assortment of clothes already thrown in. She waved distractedly at him with her free hand and kept listening to the phone. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks stained with tears, but at least for now their flow had halted.

“I know, but I want to be there.... Can you book it for me...? I don’t have a credit card.... Can we sort that out when I get there...? Yes, I do.... I know.... When’s the next flight... Can you check...? Sure. Call me back.... Ta.... Bye.”

She breathed heavily and held her phone up to her forehead. Marshall moved towards her and pulled her close, holding her for a few moments as she composed herself and lost herself in the safety of his embrace.

“Hi. Sorry about all this.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks “I’m a mess.”

“No. It’s OK. I understand.” He offered the flowers towards her.

She accepted them with a laugh. “Oh Marshall. You shouldn’t have.” Fresh tears began to build.

“I thought you could do with them.”

“It’s sweet.”

“How is he?”

“He’s in the hospital. They’ve rushed him into surgery. His heart gave out- just like that- at work. Luckily he was harnessed in coz he fell off the roof. He was just dangling there. Anne says they had a bit of trouble getting him down.”

They chuckled perversely. “I bet. C’mon. I also got you these.” He held up the icecream and ginger beer.

Hazel sniffed and wiped her nose as Marshall led her into the kitchen where he got a couple of spoons out of the cutlery drawer and glasses from the cupboard above. Hazel made a successful grab for the icecream and ripped the lid off, while Marshall cracked ice into the tumblers.

“Should we offer some to Pilar?”

Hazel screwed up her face and started towards the veranda.

“Pee-lar! Do you want some icecream and ginger?”

“Aww. I’ll have some icecream...”

Marshall hunted around for another spoon, but could only find a clean fork. “Ah, the joys of shared living.”

Hazel sat down next to Pilar and plunged her spoon into the tub. Marshall offered Pilar the spoon and she took it from him once she’d pulled her dress underneath her bum.

“Are you sure you don’t want any ginger?”

“Nah, I’m ‘right” She put down the tome and lifted the wine bottle to her lips and took a healthy swig. A trail of condensation ran down the green-black glass and dripped from her lip to her chin. She snorted and wiped it away.

Once they were all comfortable and the icecream had down its first circuit Marshall spoke. “So, are you gonna go back to Christchurch?”

“Yeah. For a bit. My sister’s looking into flights for me. She’s gonna call back when she’s done.”

“When are you wanting to go?”

“As soon as possible, really. Tomorrow?”

“Wow. That soon?”

“Yeah.”

They sat looking at the table, trying to take it all in and slukking on their dessert. Marshall alternated between thoughts of what exactly there was for him to do while she was gone, and feeling guilty about his own selfishness thinking of his own immediate future rather than that of his lover. He felt ashamed, but the thoughts persisted, swimming on through his selfish guilt.

“So how long do you think you’ll be gone?” Pilar finally asked.

“Oh. I haven’t really thought about it. A couple of weeks? It all depends on how Dad is. A few weeks, a month? Fuck knows.”

“Do you want us to do anything while you’re away?” Pilar didn’t have anything specifically in mind, but the thought of sitting there without at least trying to help in some tangible way appalled her. She had to say something to back up the embrace she buried her friend within.

“No no.”

“We’ll make sure we call every day, and look after Marshall for you. Look at him, the poor delicate soul.

Marshall put on his best hangdog expression. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aww, poor thing,” Pilar extended her hand toward him, beckoning him towards them. He leant over the table and put his arm around them. The tears redoubled down Hazel’s face, and the other two had to look away to prevent themselves falling prey to the emotion. 

Chapter 18: At The Scotsman

Chapter 14: Aligning the Moral Compass

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.

Chapter 12: Whatever Happened to Chivalry

They lay back on their towels in silence and buried their feet in the sand as the sky behind turned dusty with the approaching sunrise. The first of the gulls shook themselves clean in the pools amongst the rocks of the breakwater as the night’s hood was pared back. The first sleepy rays peered in strands over the ridge of dunes to pierce the pale mist hovering over the ocean, a beacon to a new day.

Alby formed the nucleus of the group, with Pilar’s head on his chest and Hazel’s on his stomach, their bodies stretched out perpendicular to his. Alby’s hand lay casually on Pilar’s taut brown stomach, and Marshall listened to the madness turning in Hazel’s stomach.

They squinted against the ignited sky. The tide rushed half-heartedly against the sand. The morning was unhurried; they had nowhere better to be other than right here soaking in the dawn and the gentle lapping of the ocean. Their breathing marked time with the ebb and flow and their heartbeats murmured in alignment. It was Saturday morning and the world would move in its own time.

A handful of morning joggers passed along the wet sand between the group and the sea, their panting adding syncopated beats to the early morning rhythm. Swimmers adjusted goggles over their sockets as they squeaked across the sand and porpoised into the fragile surf.

“Whyyyyy,” Pilar complained. “Why would anybody do that to themselves?”

Alby chuckled.

“It’s sick is what it is,” Hazel agreed.

Alby snorted.

“Alby, you really would laugh at anything, wouldn’t you,” Marshall said.

His volume increased into an unabashed guffaw. Heads complained at the assault on their comfort.

With time the shadows of the dunes retreated up the beach and the sun cast its autumn rays across their bodies, lizards warming up to the activities of the day. They hid their eyes behind their elbows and meandered to the realisation of dehydration and the first gentle throbs starting to pulse through their heads.

“Is there any more drink? I’ve got a hangover coming on.”

Alby shook the blue polystyrene container to be met with a hollow silence. “Nah, we’re all out.”

“That’s because you dumped the dregs over my head, you arsehole,” shot Pilar.

He sighed. “Yeah. Those were the days.

Marshall snorted.

Pilar wiped the sticky remnants on her face against Alby’s chest and let her head fall back down and let out an exaggerated sigh. They lay catatonic for another while as the crescendos in their heads grew.

“My head’s really starting to hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Need.water.*gasp*.Can’t.move.”

“Urrrggh.”

“Hey guys, I’m fine! Not drinking does wonders for your body. I feel like I could run a marathon!”

A light came on in Marshall’s head- not once had he seen Alby with a drink in his hand. He was now even more confused about where Alby’s boundless energy came from.

“Lay down, shut up and keep still, motherfucker.”

Alby stayed were he was, laughing silently to himself. The world reverted to its reverie as they lay there prone and mouths agape, basking under the warming sun. Isolated pods of towels, shirts and thongs accumulated along the beach. A crisp offshore breeze picked up and the sound from the sea got heavier. The squeaking of feet grew more prominent as real estate on the waterfront became ever more scarce. Grandparents eyed the four of them cynically and diverted their grandchildren away. Regulars muttered to each other at the incursion.

“Fuck this.” Hazel reached down and grabbed a handful of Alby’s leg hair, ripping them out with a sharp snap of her wrist. Alby writhed like a cut snake, disturbing the harmony of the cluster and sending them sprawling and towels flying. Hazel squirmed away from Alby’s grasp and Marshall face-planted into the sand. He came up spitting grit. Pilar squealed in delight as Alby got hold of Hazel, hoisted her over his shoulder and set off towards the water.

Pilar turned to Marshall with a grin wide on her face. “Aren’t you going to try and save her?”

“She got herself into that mess...” he shrugged.

“Tut. Whatever happened to chivalry?” she put the back of her hand against her forehead and swooned mockingly. Alby was running into the wash, Hazel bouncing precariously on his shoulder. He launched her like a shot-put into a wave breaking just in front of them. The slap of skin against the approaching wall of water was sharply audible from the beach. They winced. Hazel came up spluttering, strands of copper plastered against her face. She caught sight of her attacker and, ignoring her reddening skin, sprang headlong at him, catching him by the legs and hobbling him until he too fell into the sand-churned water. She pushed his head under again for good luck and walked, smiling serenely, from the sea. Alby sat in the shallow sandy water and laughed.

As the easterly began to throw sand along the beach they collected their belongings and trudged heavily back through the soft white dimples to the car park. Alby jostled with Pilar while Marshall ran his hands over Hazel’s bottom under the pretence of wiping sand off her underwear.

“I’ve got sand all up in my bits,” complained Hazel.

“Ummm, his name’s Marshall…” was the ignoble response from Pilar.

They bundled everything into the boot and meandered back through the suburbs towards the city. Marshall and Hazel spooned across the back seat, their hands wandering surreptitiously. Pilar slumped against her window and fell asleep, while Alby concentrated on the road from behind foggy eyes.

“Can you put some music on?” Marshall asked. Alby obliged, sliding the cassette into the machine with a clunk. The subtle hiss of white noise emanated from the speakers as the tape wound on. Under the cover of noise Marshall slid his hand inside Hazel’s underwear, an act so brazen that he himself was shocked. His heart accelerated into cacophony as his fingers dislodged grains of sand clinging to her hairs and skin. Hazel arched her back, bit her lip and breathed out measuredly as his finger entered her, giving herself over to his touch completely. She held onto him in solidarity. Alby kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead while Pilar softly snored.

Arriving at the girl’s house, Marshall readjusted his jeans. Alby and Pilar slumped inside, eyes half closed in front of their exhaustion. Hazel glided sleekly across the paving like a cat warm from the sun. Marshall thought he heard her purring as he followed, bent over like an old man.

Inside her room they quickly disrobed, wiped the sand from their bodies and fell into bed. Sunshine streamed in around the edges of the curtains. A line sluiced across the bedspread. They set upon each other again, this time without any illusion of restraint. There was no pretence of romance, only lust and raw undisciplined sex. They devoured each other as if they hadn’t eaten in days; skins of salt and sand. Barely restrained, he bit her nipple and pushed a finger inside her. She grasped his cock forcefully and massaged its end. Their breathing was course and ragged.

As he lay threatening atop her she asked if he had a condom.

He groaned. “Shit.”

“Shit. Fuck.”

“Sorry. I don’t go out expecting these things to happen.” He rolled off her, bitter at his thoughtlessness.

“No no. It’s not your fault.” She slapped her forehead. “Shit. I’ll have to search Donna’s room.” Hazel rolled out of bed muttering, tied a towel around her body and padded down the hall. Marshall hid his eyes behind the crook of his arm and berated himself.

Hazel crept past Pilar’s door and into Donna’s room, careful not to make any noise lest she disrupt her friends and become the focus of their teasing. She opened the top drawer of the bedside table and rummaged through loose pieces of paper and boxes of aspirin, tampons and antihistamines. She found what she was looking for and removed a silver foil square from its box. She slid the drawer shut and turned to leave the room. Twin silhouette’s blocked the doorway. Marshall heard Pilar’s shriek, Alby’s rumble, and Hazel’s hissing at the pair of them, the sound of a door closing and hurried footsteps approaching. Hazel returned grasping a square of foil like a trophy above her head. She smiled a tilted smile.

“That was so embarrassing! I’m not going to hear the end of this.”

Marshall blushed. “Well, we don’t have to…”

“Oh god yes we do!” She straddled him and lowered her head to his. He smiled. She held his wrists to the headboard and slowly traced her lips down his neck, his clavicle, his torso. Her hair tickled his skin and it broke out in goosebumps. The raw passion that had threatened to burn them alive had collapsed into something more languid and erotic.

They lay prone for a few moments before he removed the condom and deposited it in the plastic bag next to her desk. A strange sense of embarrassment rolled over him as he turned towards her and saw her eyes looking, through half closed slits and lips turned upwards into a lazy smile, at his manhood. He felt her scrutinise him and worried how he measured up. He blushed and pulled the sheet up to his throat. They held hand for a few minutes before rolling over, all too aware of the unfamiliar presence of the other at their backs, and slept restlessly, steadfastly refusing to thrash around for fear of disturbing the other.

The phone started to vibrate next to the bed. Marshall lurched. Yoshi. Through bleary eyes he hit the power button. He lay staring at the ceiling rose, his sudden insomnia powered by the admonishing beats of poisoned blood at his temples and an acute awareness of the quiet body next to him. He could feel the black bags beneath his dry and bloodshot eyes; his throat a cracked mud flat. He swallowed what saliva he could produce and waves of discomfort followed the peristalsis down his neck. What’s the time? With his arm over his face he listened intently for the telltale clicking of a clock. Nothing. He groaned. Rolling over he picked up his phone from on the hatbox and switched it back on. The display told him the hour. 2 hours sleep? You’ve gotta be kidding me! It beeped a received message. Voicemail.

“Har-Mar SuperStar! It’s Yoshi. Just calling to see if you want breakfast. Give us a call.”

Marshall rubbed his face. He swivelled to sit on the edge of the bed before standing up, careful not to wake Hazel or to move too fast in case of vertigo. Hazel rolled onto her back and flung an arm across where Marshall had been sleeping. She looked at him with one eye open, watching curiously.

“Want some water?”

“Mmmm *cough* yeah.” She smiled.

He slipped his pants on and snuck into the kitchen. He rinsed a glass from the bench under cold water, eliciting a yelp from the shower. He grimaced, mouthed an apology at the wall, and raided the fridge for the remnants of the apple and orange juices in the door. He removed them from their rack and delivered them to Hazel’s room. She had wrapped herself in an oriental dressing gown and sat cross-legged on the bed awaiting his return. Her hair hung in knotted tendrils over her shoulders. Smeared makeup, dark rings and the furrows in her pained brow lent her the unnerving appearance of a brothel madam. He held the cartons out and she pointed at the orange juice. They scrutinized each other in the cold light of day down the lengths of the plastic bottles.

“I didn’t get water coz someone’s in the shower. Didn’t want to disturb ‘em.”

She dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Fuck ‘em.”

The wooden floorboards reverberated from rapid and heavy footfalls coming their way. The shadows of two legs were visible through the crack beneath the door. “Are you guys fucking?” Silence. “Hey? What are you up to?” Hazel and Marshall could hear two voices whispering, then muted giggling. They held their breath.

A woman’s voice. “Hey Hazel. Do you wanna watch a DVD? We’re watching DVD’s. You can choose. Hazel?”

“No thanks,” she sang.

“We’re coming in...”

“Fuck off!” Hazel shouted.

The latch scratched metal on metal and the door creaked as it slowly opened. Marshall leapt to lean against the inside of the door, the weight of one man leaning against the other; an inverse tug-of-war. Hazel helped him and together they managed to get the latch to click back into place.

“Awww, c’mon. We can make popcorn.”

“We’ll be out in a minute. Just give us a sec, alright?”

“Are you naked?” Alby turned the doorknob again and Marshall braced himself against the door again. Alby’s inevitable giggle could be heard though the door.

“No we’re not naked. Just give us a minute.”

“All-riiiiiight,” a singsong reply.

Marshall and Hazel waited a moment, but shadows remained.

“Go away! We can see you under the door.”

Pilar clicked her tongue and the sound of socked feet echoed down the hall.

“You too, Alby.”

“Awww.” He skipped away down the hall after Pilar.

Hazel blew a raspberry. “Do you want to stay for breakfast? I don’t know if we have much, but we could rustle something up. If you can put up with those two, that is.”

“Nah. I got a call from Yoshi.” Hazel looked at him non-plussed. “Asian-looking guy, scrawny, about this high.”

“Ah yeah.”

“He wanted to know if I wanted to get breakfast. I think I’ll get a lift home with him. I don’t want to walk home like this.” He felt like he was trying to come up with excuses. “Thanks though.”

They watched at each other awkwardly. Marshall shuffled his feet. “I should call him back and confirm, though.”

“OK.” She abstractly pushed at her hair and looked around at the mess she’d made of her room in the panic of deciding what to wear the night before. Discarded costumes lay over the back of a chair, the foot of the bed, on the desk. Used tissues dotted the floor. She berated herself for leaving her room in such a state. ‘At least I’d made my bed’ she thought. She started to clean around him while he made the call, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t always so untidy. She wrote down her address on the back of a piece of scrap paper for Marshall to relay, then sat back on the edge of the bed. Marshall tried not to stare at her inner thigh gleaming through the gap in her gown.

“He’s getting a taxi now.”

“OK. Cool. Do you want to wait on the step?” It was more of a rhetorical question as she started to move towards the door.

They emerged into the daylight and sat down on the tattered blue couch, averting their eyes from the blazing morning sun. The scent of nectar from the bottlebrush next door drifted on the wind. Dozens of bees flitted over the stamen. They sat in terrible silence taking in the sights and sounds of the Saturday morning. Everything seemed to be happening hazily, lazily. They slouched and sighed. If you had to be up and about on a hangover morning, this was the type of morning that could makes all the troubles and drama of a hangover worthwhile. They smiled across the driveway, only partially watching each other in the periphery. The night was now a hazy memory. Each passing minute further obfuscated the accuracy of the night before. By tomorrow it will have blurred into a series of discrete events and by-lines: pre-drinks (standard), concert (wasn’t the music great?), after-party (madness), beach (sexy swimming; the ride home), bed (sex. unaccountable sex).

“So... Can I umm get your number… or...”

“Ummm, sure. I guess.” Both thought it would be left just as a one-night-stand, but neither wanted to be the first to admit it. How do you just leave? Do you say ‘Thanks’? Maybe it’s better to get their number to save face?

Marshall wrote her name (What was it? Hazel), then number, into his phone and hit ‘save’. “OK then. Thanks. I guess.” He extended his arm awkwardly towards her.

A smile spread across Hazel’s face at the absurdity of the situation; almost laughed. She accepted his handshake. “No problem. Thank you.”

Now it was Marshall’s turn to smile. They both recognised it for what it was. A fling. A one-night-stand. Hedonism.

A yellow taxi crept carefully up the street trying to identify the numbers on the letterboxes. Marshall waved it on to where they were. “Well, thanks again. It was a great night. I had the most fun ever.”

“Me too. See you again some time. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Haha yeah. You too. K.F.C. Mmmm,” he rubbed his belly sarcastically. While fried food seemed like a good idea now, he knew that it would seem like a bad idea later. Hazel laughed.

“Bye.” They waved, embarrassed, yet satisfied with the way things had paned out all the same.

Marshall got in the car and buckled his seat belt. As the car started to roll forward Marshall held his hand up towards the woman on the couch. He felt a sudden pang of misery that in all likelihood this would only be a one-off. It was a bitter feeling, of opportunity missed, or worse, wasted. Her eyes met his dolefully. Alby and Pilar rushed out the front door waving madly. “Bye Marshall. Bye!” they shouted, setting the neighbours dog to barking. Hazel swung her fist around and caught Alby in the ribs, setting him off into hysterics as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

As they set off down the road Yoshi extended his hand for a high-five, and bashfully Marshall obliged. “Good work.” They shared a smile.

 “So?”

“So what?” Marshall asked trying to act cool and collected, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Yoshi looked at him incredulously and dropped it for the time being. “To KFC! Get the man some celebratory chicken!”

“How about you. What did you get up to?”

“Casino. Came out a hundred and fifty ahead. That’s booze for the week. The rest goes towards celebratory chicken! My shout”

“Damn straight.” Marshall afforded himself a chuckle at the absurdity of life.

By the end of the day, after nausea and a nap, Marshall had convinced himself that he would message Hazel. ‘What the hell’ he reasoned ‘what do I have to lose? We had fun, right? Why shouldn’t I message and just see what happens.’ But when to send the message? I don’t want to seem too eager, but don’t want it to seem like some bored after-thought.’ He wrestled with himself, this eternal question, then told himself ‘Fuck it. Just send it now. Fuck the consequences.’ Something about the combination of the night and the hangover had given him a new bout of confidence. Or recklessness, it was hard to tell which. He wasn’t expecting it to work out for him, and if he did so happen to be shot down in flames at least he had had a go. And that at least was something to take away from it other than just the fading memories and nostalgia for bygone joy.