A Quiet Moment

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked monotonously, rhythmically. Minutes passed, and Sarah remained sitting and staring ahead. At last, a moment just to sit and take a breather. Have a cup of tea. A moment when nothing was expected of her. And then the crying began. Intermittently, at first, and then increasing in speed and volume and octave. She continued to sit there, the incessant crying as far away from her thoughts as the clock ticking on the mantelpiece.

More minutes passed, she assumed, but wasn't sure. Maybe it was only seconds. She was vaguely aware of the distant cries, as far as the next room. And yet she couldn't bring herself to move. Her tea grew cold beside her. She couldn't move. Not that she couldn't, she wouldn't.

Every day started at 5am. Blearily, she would pull herself out from under her warm, soft doona, and pad to the cradle at other end of the room. Michael would stir from the other side of the bed, turn, and begin snoring again. She would pick up the little crying bundle from the cradle, and press the warm body into hers. It was motherly love, but it was still 5am, Michael was still asleep, and all she could hope for was a cup of tea. She would carry the bundle into the living room and place her on the change mat. Change her, then feed her, then leave her lying on a blanket in the living room, so she could turn the kettle on. Then Jessica would cry, and she would never get to have her cup of tea.

Michael was always in a rush to leave for work. He needed to be on site at 7am, so she would have his instant coffee poured, and his toast buttered as he raced into the shower. With a brief peck on the cheek, he was out the door. Her tea from earlier would now be cold, but she took the liberty of chowing down her cold toast, as Jessica lay momentarily at peace, watching the branches moving in the breeze outside.

It was a good day if a shower made the agenda, if Jessica fell asleep after Michael had left for work. After her shower, she would whip around the house, cleaning surfaces, throwing nappies and the rest into the washing machine. She would rinse the dishes, stack the machine, and then Jessica would be awake again.

But today she had done it all, and Jessica had still been sleeping, so she had bravely put the kettle on once more, and with her hot cup of tea, sat down in the living room with nothing to do. That's when the cries had begun, and Sarah could simply not bring herself to get up.

So far, in the two months since Jessica's birth, motherhood had been full of unfulfilled promises. She had felt no bliss, no motherly tenderness, no pride, no elation. Her body still ached, and more so now, with her tired and sleepless muscles.

Everything between her and Michael was so different now. For nine years, they had lived and travelled together, saved money and had bought a house. She would describe their home as enchanting and warm – an old worker's cottage that had been renovated in the last twenty years. When she turned 31, they decided to try and have a baby. They were financially secure, and they were a rock solid couple, who barely ever fought. While friends divorced and disintegrated around them, Sarah and Michael whistled through with barely a scratch.

Michael had wanted kids from the beginning. He was one of four himself, so large families were familiar to him. When Sarah fell pregnant, he cried for the first time in their marriage. He braced her like scaffolding, forever cautious of every movement she made. He watched what she ate, and never let alcohol or any other dangerous substance pass her lips. During the labour, he stood beside her for the entire twenty-six hours, wiping her forehead with cool towels and offering her sips of water. And when Jessica was born, he cried again. Wept – his shoulders heaving, and tears streaming, uninterrupted, down his cheeks.

But after the honeymoon, it had all changed. He'd gone back to work, and his life had resumed as normal. Hers was now completely different. Where she once was able to pop out, see a movie, have a coffee with a girlfriend, she was bound to her house, that now seemed small and empty and cold. Her friends that had promised regular visits were busy with their own lives, and had only been round once, or maybe twice. She couldn't deny that Jessica was precious, with her tiny fingers wrapped around hers, but it wasn't enough to fill the empty house, and the long weary days. When Michael arrived home, all she wanted to do was throw the baby at him, and disappear into the bedroom, close the curtains and the door, block out any noise. But that was when Jessica needed her most, as she cried more in the evening, and refused to be consoled by anyone other than her mother. And Michael was tired from work. All he wanted to do was sit down, eat, and watch television. She'd complain about her tiredness, and the crying, and the dirty laundry. Michael would gently console her, then continue eating, and tell her about his day, or about something on the news. She could see from his face he didn't want to talk about her problems – the same problems every day. Besides, as he always reminded her, she got to stay home all day with their beautiful daughter – if only he should be so lucky. Eventually she gave up, knowing that he'd never understand. By the time she'd bathed, fed and put Jessica to sleep, then cooked dinner, and helped Michael with the washing up, Sarah was too tired to even stand, let alone watch television, or talk with Michael. So she'd go to bed. Jessica would wake throughout the night, and then at 5am, it all began again.

The crying continued. Louder, more aggressive. Screams that sounded like they might rupture the tiny vocal cords. Sarah got up, hesitated, then walked out the front door. The screams withered behind her as she closed the door. She walked up the path, through the trellis, covered by wisteria in full bloom. The daylight was bright and harsh against the pavement. Vacantly, she headed down the street. What was the worst thing that would happen? Jessica might scream until she fell back asleep. She couldn't damage herself, could she? She wouldn't remember this episode, the day she had to cry and cry while her mother walked away. Sarah shuddered to think what Michael would say if she told him. He would be horrified. Perhaps he would never forgive her. He might never trust her again.

She stopped at the intersection. The screams were now inaudible. All she could hear was traffic, and a tram approaching. He would never trust her again. Jessica might never trust her again. Maybe she would never go to sleep again, for fear of waking alone and abandoned.

Even without the screams, and in a whole other planet outside her little house, Jessica wouldn't go away. She was in every moment, and every thought. And yet Sarah felt hollow, standing there at the intersection. She touched her chest, and realised that she had left her top buttons undone.

A tram clunked past as she turned around, and headed back towards home. She looked down at the pavement as she passed a young couple pushing a stroller. Who was she – this monster, with her hair in disarray and her shirt undone, walking the streets while her baby cried herself to shreds? She began to run, her heart pounding as she entered the house. The screaming continued, and she threw herself into the bedroom. She picked up Jessica, who was limp, red and drenched in sweat from all the crying, and pressed her to her breast, tears running down her face.

This story was written a year or so ago, when creative writing consumed my life, temporarily. I read a post by The Little Mumma today that inspired me to share this story on my blog. Thank you Angie, as always, for the inspiration....

The Olive Tree

Everyone is having an afternoon nap. I push open the back screen door, and run down the driveway through the paddock to the bottom of the property. My olive tree is waiting for me. Her branches welcome me into her centre.

I sit on her knobbly roots, made for a small bottom like mine. Brittle leaves carpet her interior. Next to me, is a door, big enough only for the miniature family of bears that live inside. Above me, I can see the branches that Mr Lizard jumps from with glee, wearing his red top hat, and chewing on a piece of grass. Lily, the fairy princess, also lives in the old olive tree. Her room is at the very top. She and I are best friends.

For hours, Lily, my bear friends and I gossip about the other creatures in the wood. We talk about the mean old King, who lives in the sausage tree next door, and counts his money. He never lends any to anyone else. We talk about Mrs Magpie, who is really very dotty, and is always forgetting her keys. Mrs Bear complains about her husband, and her noisy children. I sympathise briefly, before her daughter tells me her mother is very strict.

The sky is clear and the air is dry. We gaze through her old branches as a single cloud travels past. The grass around her is the colour of sand.

I hear the bell on my brother's bike, and the scrape of gravel. I say goodbye to my friends, and run towards the driveway.

The Write on Wednesday Spark - The nature of place
Think about a place in nature that feels special to you. Perhaps it is somewhere you visited as a child. Or maybe you share a special outdoor space with your own children. This place, this space will be your prompt for this week's writing exercise. Write about a particular natural geography, a natural place or space close to your heart. Tell us about the weather, the landform , the creatures who live there, what the place means to you and why. You can write prose fiction, poetry, non-fiction and/or a photographic narrative. You might mix the landscape with a personal story. Wherever the prompt take you...Let us peek into your place.

Grey water

Meg marches through the tall grass. It whips her bare legs, and her feet crush dry leaves. The evening is clammy. Sweat drips between her breasts. She can't see clearly, but can smell the sea, so heads towards it.

The roar of the ocean takes her by surprise. Stepping onto the sand, the clamminess is broken by dry, salt air. It sticks to her skin.

She runs now. Her thighs ache as she pushes herself through the sand. It swallows her feet. She runs towards the water and pauses only briefly before crashing through the small, grey waves. She runs deeper, against the pull, and at last throws herself into the fury of the salt and the water. She is submerged, yelling now, as her mouth and nose fill and her eyes sting.

When she breaks through the surface, the sky is grey, the water is grey. But she is clear.

This piece is the first WoW for 2012. Check out other WoW pieces. Below is the prompt:

The Write on Wednesday spark: The stories a tree could tell.
Take a look at the above photo (by Story). Use it to inspire your Write on Wednesday post. Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links in the list. Enjoy!

The Key

http://imaginaryrosse.deviantart.com/art/Claustrophobia-87588517

This is a piece in progress. I did a writer's workshop with MJ Hyland earlier in the year, and she gave me some feedback on this piece, which I would like to use when editing. In the busy-ness of life, however, I haven't had the opportunity to sit down and heed her wisdom. But I will...

In the meantime, her is version 1 of The Key and stay tuned for future, tighter versions. Let me know what you think.

Zannix

The Key

We pinched for any freedom we could get.
Lucy found a swipe card on the floor of the laundry one evening. She stifled it in her pocket – this key will change our lives, Lucy declared. It came down to that. That's how desperate we were.
We told Viv, and no-one else. The three of us waited until lights out and for Hucho, the boarding mistress' footsteps to cease. Lucy swiped the card. The green light came on and the monitor beeped once, twice. Gently, Lucy pushed open the door, a millimetre at a time so it didn't squeak.
And...we were out.
“Let's go on the roof,” decided Lucy. Viv produced a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her hoodie, which she danced in front of us.
The cool night air smacked me in the face as we let ourselves onto the roof. My nervousness turned to exhilaration. We were free! I hadn't felt the night air, so cold and clear, forever.
We watched security from our watchtower as he patrolled with the old German Shepherd, called Edward. Security was for our own safety - to keep the predators out, or something. Viv lit up, and passed it round. I don't like smoking, but I inhaled, coughed, gagged, and passed it on. We talked about the social, about Maths with Kerry Cretin, and of course about Cauldy. Alex Caulder was a guy from the boys’ school down the road. He was tall, and bulky, from a property in Western Queensland, and drove a Holden ute with an enormous bull-bar attached and stickers like “Honk if You're Horny” plastered to the back window. Lucy was in love with him, but they had never even had a proper conversation.
The swipe card defined us, and gelled us. Every morning we sat together at breakfast, more tired than the others, but proud and pleased with ourselves. We had an out. A key to our freedom, and the others were all doomed to sit obediently and do as they were told.
We sprayed deodorant on our clothes so no-one detected the smell of cigarettes.
Lucy was the first girl I met when I arrived in Year Eight. I came to the school a year later than most people. Friendship groups had already formed, and I just tagged on the end. Only Lucy embraced me. She invited me to her table, where we sat at recess and lunch. On Year Eight camp, she asked if I would be her buddy. Lucy saved me. She was so popular, so well liked. Everyone looked to her for everything but, for some reason, she chose me.
She invited me home to her family's property for weekends occasionally. We were allowed two weekend leaves a term. My parents lived in Hong Kong, so I never went home between holidays. Lucy lived on a huge sheep station eight hours drive from school. Her parents were warm and loving, and her mum made home-made chutney and jam, and sent me back to school well-fed, warm and well-loved.
Viv arrived the beginning of Year Eleven, the only new boarder that year. Viv was a city girl, expelled from her school in Sydney for drinking alcohol on a ski trip, and various other offences. Viv came to our school not caring about making friends, or fitting in. She just wanted to get through the next two years, and then get out, and do exactly as she pleased. She wanted to be a fashion designer. She recycled clothes from op-shops, tearing them to bits, and re-stitching them. And she had her nipple pierced. The other girls avoided Viv – a bit too out there, too sure of herself. She intrigued me though, and Lucy, as Lucy was prone too, took her under her wing. Even though Viv didn't need anyone, I think she was secretly pleased Lucy made room for her on the lunch table.
The term passed by. No-one else knew about the swipe card. We smoked two packs between us throughout the term. At some point, we smuggled a bottle of vodka under Viv's hoodie that her mum had bought duty free. We played games on Lucy's iPhone, and wrote dumb things on Facebook walls.
But sitting, chatting on the roof, cold, shivering and sometimes wet, soon lost its appeal. Especially as no-one knew how dangerous we were being. We started to graduate. Climbing from roof to roof, until we nearly were out of school bounds. The security guard never looked up, his eyes peeled for prowlers outside the school gates.
One night, Viv slipped on a loose tile. My heart flipped, and I shrieked. But she stopped sliding before she reached the gutter. She and Lucy were sniggering, and soon became hysterical. I tentatively suggested we give the roof trips a break for a while. Anyway, Maths exams loomed. English assignments had reared their ugly heads. I think Viv went up for the occasional cigarette, but Lucy and I didn't go up for the rest of the term.
Lucy invited Viv and me on holidays with her to the beach. A crew were going, and renting a cabin at the beach-side caravan park. I opted for this sort of “fun” holiday, rather than going home to Hong Kong to see Mum and Dad, who would probably be too busy with work to see much of me anyway. Viv declined the invitation. She hated the other girls who were going.
We spent the holidays drinking, smoking and skinny-dipping. A crew of boys from our brother school were staying at the same park, and hung around most nights. Incidentally, Cauldy was one of them. When we arrived and saw his ute parked out the front of one of the cabins, I felt Lucy's fingernails in my arm. One night, after a bottle of O.P. rum and skinny-dipping in the sea, Lucy didn't come back to the cabin. Her bed next to mine was empty all night. The next morning, I sat out the front of the cabin reading a magazine. Lucy emerged, almost literally from the bushes. Her face was streaked with dirt, a grin tweaked the corners of her mouth. Sort of bashful.
“Me and Alex did it in his ute,” she announced, mildly. Somehow, I felt proud of Lucy. She was not the first of the group to lose her virginity, but I knew what this meant to her.
“What was it like?” I ask shyly.
“It was OK.” And that was the end of the conversation about sex with Alex Caulder.
I wish I could have stopped the clock at that holiday, gone back and spent the rest of my life in the cabin with Lucy and the three other girls, hanging at the beach. I wish we hadn't gone back to school that term.
The term started like all others. A low down of the end of term assessments. Pressure was building for the big end of Year Twelve exam, and they were trying to make us sweat, and work harder. The boarders had a special BBQ to welcome us back after holidays, and they gave us ice-cream paddle-pops for dessert.
The weeks ground on. We hadn't been on the roof after lights out all term. It was like we had forgotten. Then one night, after a hellish day in Maths, Lucy knocked on my door. I opened it, and a blue vodka lid peaked round the corner.
“You game?” invited Lucy, teasingly. I pushed my Maths homework away, and followed the blue lid. We passed Viv's door, and Lucy knocked. No answer. She shrugged, and led me up to the roof.
Warmer now. Summer was setting in. The concrete was still warm from the heat of the day.
“Fuck I hate Cretin,” sighed Lucy, swigging from the bottle. “She's such a cow. She makes my life so miserable.”
“Yeah,” I commiserate. “She's so bitter. She's been at the school forever and has no life except to torture us.”
“Yeah.” We passed the bottle between us, then Lucy produced a cigarette, bent, from her pocket.
I loved being up there with Lucy. Always, since the first day in Year Eight, she made me feel so included. Special.
“Coming?” Lucy pulled herself up onto the ledge. “I'm going to try and get onto the roof of the chapel.”
“No way, that's way too high”.
“Nup – I know how to do it. I worked it out in R.E. today. Cinch.”
Now I really was scared. The vodka was burning in my throat.
“OK,” I followed her up onto the next roof top. I didn't want her to go alone.
We scaled each roof, slowly. Laughing nervously as we slipped a little, and grabbed onto the nearest tile. Until we were at the chapel. There was a gap between the roof we were on and the lowest gutter of the three-storey chapel roof. Concrete steps bridged the walkway between the buildings.
“Hold my ankles,” Lucy instructed. She handed me the box of cigarettes she had in her hand, which I stuffed in my pocket.
She knelt and leant forward, stretching. And then she did it. Grabbed the gutter of the chapel.
“Got me?” she said in a loud whisper. I nodded. And she pushed off with her feet, and next thing was dangling off the gutter from her fingertips.
“Luce!” I hissed, scared witless. But she didn't respond. She was hanging for a second, and then...she slipped, her fingernails of one hand scrabbling for the gutter, making a back-tingling scratching sound.
“Lucy!” I yelled, desperate. She didn't catch it, and she fell. She fell.
I watched her, stunned. It took forever. She landed face down on the concrete steps. A solid heavy thump. I couldn't move. Then I screamed. I screamed and I screamed. And I scrabbled as fast as I could to the lowest part of the roof, lowering myself down onto the roof of the walkway, then jumped and landed in a hibiscus bush. My head was whirring. I was drunk, and out of breath. I was numb with pain. I raced to where Lucy's body was lying. Falling over, as I stumbled on the stairs. I got up and reached her, lurching myself onto my knees. “Lucy!” I screamed. “Lucy!” She didn't respond. She was not moving. I lightly touched her back. She was not breathing. I didn't know what to do, and I couldn't think. Suddenly I heard footsteps. The security guard was there, panting.
“What's going...?” he stopped when he saw Lucy's body.
It all happened in a blur. Hucho came down, the ambulance arrived. Girls were huddled together in their pyjamas. Crying. Wailing. Three men lifted Lucy's body onto a stretcher, then covered her with a sheet. I turned away. It was too devastating. Too much to take in. I stood by myself, not crying, not wailing, just watching the ambulance drive out the school gates. Horrified, and silent.
The next morning, I still hadn't shed a tear. And then it occurred to me that I would probably be suspended – expelled! For being on the roof. For drinking alcohol. For letting Lucy... Gaol, even, was a distinct possibility. I imagined myself hauled into the back of a paddy wagon, cuffed, everyone watching on.
As everyone dispersed into their respective classrooms for first period, Reverend Lucas came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I followed him to his office. He asked how I was feeling about what happened. I said I didn't know. He asked me why I was up on the roof with Lucy – what had happened to Lucy yesterday, how had she been feeling, had she said anything to me about why? I sat back and looked at the Reverend. I was shocked – did he think...did they think that Lucy had jumped off the roof?
“Lucy was happy!” I yelled. “We were up on the roof because we wanted to, because it was something a bit different. Something fun!” He looked at me doubtfully, and said nothing in response to my sudden outburst. He removed his spectacles, and wiped them with a tissue.
“Louisa, you will of course be offered counselling to help you deal with what happened, and any additional tutoring you require to get you through until the end of the year. There will be a police enquiry, and you may be required to be a witness – but I will continue to support you throughout. ”
I was silent. All I could imagine him saying next was that I would be expelled, at the very least.
“Louisa...” he paused, dramatically, “it will all be OK.” He looked like he meant it – like he was sure it would.
I wished I had been expelled that day. Sent back to Hong Kong on the first plane out. Fined, stoned, tortured in some horrible way. Instead I faced...what, exactly? Girls in the classroom exchanging glances, occasionally someone touching my arm, as if in sympathy, but no-one, no-one ever talked to me about Lucy. Except the counsellor of course. But she seemed more preoccupied with my emotional stability than Lucy herself, and exactly what happened that night. Even Viv, for the first time in her life, was lost for words. She looked at me with this pained face, as if to say: “I wish I knew what to say.” But like everyone else, she apparently didn't.
Like the counselling sessions, the inquest seemed scripted, as if it were written in the manual. Dressed in my blazer, stockings and a hat, I was escorted into town by Hucho in a maxi taxi, and interviewed about my relationship with Lucy and my account of the event. The coroner questioned me extensively about the exact details of the fall, and sat back in his enormous chair when I finished, as if I had given the correct answer, and he was happy. The autopsy revealed nothing unusual that indicated foul-play. The coroner ruled Lucy's death was accidental, and I was escorted back to school. He may as well have ruled me guilty of murder.
The funeral was held in Lucy's home town ten days after the fall. The school took a bus of us girls, and gave us two days off school. Viv refused to come – she said she hated funerals. I saw Lucy's mother sitting in the front pew, wearing dark glasses, and a huge navy sun hat pulled over her face. I remained at the back of the chapel, behind a pillar. Alex Caulder was standing close by with a mate, dressed in a suit, his thick black hair slicked back, smartly. Lucy's brother spoke at the funeral. He thanked everyone for coming, especially those who travelled to be there. Drinks and snacks were provided after the service, and accommodation expenses at the local hotel had been taken care of, he said. They played Amazing Grace, and Lucy's favourite song – a country song about horses with wings. I didn't cry. Behind the pillar, I stood motionless, staring at the coffin.
Later, as the wake was winding down, and waiters were clearing glasses, I felt a presence behind me. I looked around. Lucy's mum stood alone, in her navy suit. She removed her glasses – her eyes puffy and swollen.
“Louisa, I just want to say...” her voice quavered. “I just want to say...” She looked at me, pleadingly, willing me to read her mind, finish her sentence for her. But I drew a blank. I didn't know what to say. How could I ever put into words how I felt – or didn't feel? We stared at one another for what seemed like a lifetime, and then suddenly, her face closed, and she walked away, hurriedly, as I said, “I'm sorry,” my voice cracking, and shadowing her, like an echo.
Back in my dorm, my door locked and phone off the hook, I couldn't study any more. I couldn't think. I could only sit there vacantly. I turned the cigarette packet over in my hand. It was crumpled, and nearly empty. I thumbed the cigarettes, then realised that the swipe card was also in the packet. Pulling it out, I examined it. That damned swipe card. That golden, tormenting and torturous key – why did it ever come into our lives?
The next morning, when it was still dark, I left. I packed everything I owned and rang a taxi. I stopped at Viv's door – the one person who might miss me, and be sorry to see me go. But I didn't linger, and before anyone was even awake, with my precious swipe card I let myself out of the front door, and the front gate.

Four calling birds

http://dustyburrito.blogspot.com/2011/06/alice-tait-illustration.html

The night was silent. The room felt bleak and smelt like mould. It was Christmas Eve, and Luca lay awake, the side of his stomach aching. This was it, he thought. This was finally the end.

Each time his eyes closed, he could see his mother, her eyes flaming and bloodshot, her cheeks red, and body bloated as she came towards him with plates, knives and a wooden spoon. Beneath closed eyelids, the image was so much worse than it could have possibly been in real life. But still, she was there, haunting him and keeping him awake.

Why was she like this? Why did she have to be his mother? It felt so unfair.

He moved again in his bed, willing the pain in his ribs to move, but every time he thought about it, the stabbing jolts became worse. Heat ran up and down his side, until it wasn't just his ribs that ached, it was his whole torso, and then his legs, his neck, his arms and his skull. He tried to remember what it was that had hit him to cause this much pain, but in the fog of the fight, he couldn't identify the single, fatal blow.

And then he heard it, the calling birds. The ridiculous chortles mocked the stillness of the night, and all who lay awake dreading the approaching morning. Die now, he whispered, to the night, to the birds and to himself.

For Flora

Clara walked into the cathedral to escape the freezing wind, and was overwhelmed with a sense of familiarity. Although the high roof, the infinite stretch of pews before her and the magnificent stained glass were so much more than she had seen before, the cathedral felt homely.

She gazed around. Most of the pews were empty. A woman wearing purple sat alone in the centre, her head bowed into her arms and her back hunched. Two teenagers sat in a pew at the back, stretching high with their cameras above their heads.

To her left, she saw the white candles of all different heights, dripping into the sand. She placed a silver coin in the donation box, leaned a new candle into another to catch its flame and placed it on a spike to drip with the others. For Flora, she whispered to Jesus, who was carved in stone beside her.

This is a 5 minute writing exercise in response to the above image for Write on Wednesday. The cricket was playing on TV behind me, and there were other distracting noises, so I don't know if this was my best piece. But all writing is good writing practice. If you would like to read something of mine which is a little longer, read Skin which is my previous post, and a piece I am quite proud of.

Please feel free to leave me feedback and your comments. They are all appreciated! Zannix

Skin

http://lotusroot.wordpress.com/2010/01/

He filled every cell, every vessel and vein in my body...he ran through me, like molten lava, burning and melting. Impossible to forget, impossible to escape. I wanted to escape...but then I wanted to plunge in again. Burn, melt, disintegrate to ash. Drown myself in the agony of him, and let him replete me, and flow through me again – let him push at my skin, until it ruptures.

To begin with, he is a figure, far far away. Distant, and beautiful, with chiselled features, and soft, gentle eyes. I watch him, dazed, and entranced. He moves so gracefully. Every time he speaks, or does anything, I focus in, and can do nothing else. I am meant to be concentrating on my lines, but I can't, and I stumble, and get confused.

I go to my car. I don't realise we are parked side by side.
“Hi,” he says.
I can't talk. I swallow, then say “Hi.”
“You're really great in that character. Have you done this long?”
“What, acting? No. Well, sort of. I have acted before, but, you know, never seriously.”
“Cool – well you should do more. You're awesome.”
I blush. I can't believe he is talking to me. Or giving me a compliment.
“Thanks – you're awesome too,” I blush again. “With the music,” I add. He smiles, and sits cross-legged on the bonnet of his car. His thin ankles and black Converse shoes tucked beneath his legs.
“So what else do you do?” he asks.
“I study literature. And write. For fun. What about you?”
“I study too – music. And I play music in a band, as you can see. We play gigs from time to time. And I write too...I would love to see your stuff. What do you write?”
“You know, just different things. You would like to see it?”
“Definitely. Bring something tomorrow. And I will bring something to show you.”
I am standing in front of him. We talk some more. Then I sit beside him. Sitting on his bonnet, watching the car park clear. We talk for hours. About our writing, about studying, about music, about school, about where we come from. We only live fifteen minutes apart. It's hard to believe I have never seen him before, or heard of his band.
And then he is under my skin. And into my blood.

I don't sleep of course. It is impossible. I get up, and carefully select the best things I think I have ever written. Suddenly it feels like I have never written anything. I despise everything, and want to tear it up, or delete it from my computer. But I restrain. I choose a poem, and a short story I wrote in year twelve, which won a prize.

The next afternoon, I am at rehearsals early. I expect him to be there early too, but he isn't. Clare is there, smoking, sitting on the steps.
“Hey. Saw you yesterday, talking to Myles.” She draws out his name. Her tone is nasal.
“Yep,” I say and wait for her evaluation.
“Nice. Real nice. Man, he is so hot. What's he like? I reckon he's into you.”
“No way, Clare, it's impossible. He's so amazing.”
“Like you're not,” she says.

When he arrives, he looks straight at me, and smiles. We rehearse, and I try harder to focus on my lines and not on him. Clare is looking at me not looking at him. He is looking at me. I don't look at him. I glance at the clock, and will it through until six – until everyone leaves, and we can sit on the bonnet of his car again and talk.
We exchange our writing, timidly. I like his stuff. It's fresh, and clever. He says he likes mine, but wants to take it home so he can read it again, properly.
“So, Friday, we are playing at the Old Bar. Do you want to come?”
“OK,” I say, not sure if this is a date or just a general invitation.

He surges through my veins to my brain, and it nearly explodes, as I try and push him out of my thoughts and try and concentrate on driving, or talking with someone, or watching TV. Anything. Then I give up, and let him take over. Every minute taking me closer to Friday night.

I arrive, and know it is a date. He meets me out the front, and kisses me, near the mouth.
“So glad you came.” He is dressed all in black - black faded jeans, black suede shoes, and a tight black tee-shirt. His hair is tousled, like it has never been brushed. I expect it to be a big crowd, and for him to have heaps of friends there, but there is hardly anyone. Just him, and the band, and a few others. He introduces me to the band. Jim, Tim and Craig. They seem cool. I like their music. It's not what I would usually listen to, but they are good, and he sings, and is beautiful, and it doesn't matter what the band sounds like, really.

He asks me to his place. We lie on his double bed, staring up at the ceiling, like preschool children, holding hands. Then he turns on his side and strokes my face. We don't sleep together. We just talk and talk and talk. Every day, I come over. We have a uni break, so other than rehearsals in the evenings, we don't have anything to do, except lie side by side, talking about the great writers, the great musicians, the meaning of the universe. He is funny too...he draws cartoons of me, and sticks them on his wall. Cartoons of me doing strange things like sitting on balloons, or swinging from a plane. Sometimes we go out for walks, and I can't believe he invites me to come again the next day. When I am with him, I try to think of what I should do next. At night, at home, it seems so obvious - I just need to lean into him, and kiss him, and then it will all just happen naturally. Then the next day comes, and we talk, and lie side by side, or swim together, or walk holding hands, but I can never lean in, and he doesn't lean in either.

Jimmy comes round a few times. Has a beer, and a spliff. I don't have any. The conversation changes. We don't talk about literature or philosophy, but they talk about music, and other people they know and parties and stuff I don't know about. His sister comes round too once. I like her – she looks just like Myles, but is rounder, and shorter, and female. They are bonded together. I can see her watching me sometimes, like she has to ask me something, but can't remember what it is she needed to ask.

Then we are walking on the beach. I go to hold his hand, and he pulls is away. My skin expands with the pressure, then ruptures, and molten lava gushes down my body, down my legs, burning my skin, and into the sand. He pulled away. I look at him for a clue, but he just keeps talking. I try again, and he pulls away again.
“What's wrong?” I ask. Finally, we talk about us.
“Nothing.” His face has changed and he is looking across the ocean, far away.
“Something is. What is it?”
He looks at something on the horizon, like it is very important, and he can't take his eyes away from it, or something will go wrong.
“Myles?”
“It's difficult, Jules. I don't know what to say.” We walk back to the car in silence. We drive back to the house in silence, and he still doesn't know what to say. I am getting into my car, looking at his face searchingly. He just stares at me, vacantly.
“She's coming back next week,” he says at last.
“Who is? Who is coming back?”
“Meredith.”
Oh. Meredith. I thought she was an ex. I didn't understand, but now I was starting to. Meredith.
“I'm really sorry, Jules. I can't hang out any more. I am falling in love with you, and I can't.”
“I don't understand – thought...I didn't realise you and Meredith...you have barely mentioned her before.”
“I know. And I am sorry.”
I wind up the window, and drive away from him. My eyes are leaking, and I am trying to concentrate on the road ahead, through the rain, which pelts on my windscreen, like silver shards. I pull over at the park, and fall against the steering wheel, my body heaving. Nothing has ever felt this bad before. He has taken over, and now left me with nothing. I am drained of everything I ever was before. An empty, disintegrating skin, hanging over the steering wheel in the pouring rain.