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Mudlo Street

I took him outside, around the back, against the fly screen door while a black cat sat atop the tallboy watching and flicking her tail. I found this distracting. He didn’t seem to notice. There are people inside, watching the TV and talking about things like the football. I think they’re drinking my beer.

It’s hot, and humid and we stick to the vinyl on the couch as we sit down. He’s not saying anything so I go inside and get two beers before they drink them all. They’re not twist tops so I have to crack the tops off on the corner of the bench.

He’s got a cigarette burning now. It smells good. I like the smell of loose tobacco it smells like my youth.

The mango tree is full with fruitbats, all screeching and sucking on the fruit. Nighttime’s little upside down imps. The smell of batt piss and mango blossom is not nearly as nice as the smell of his tobacco.

A Ute full of cane cocky boys drives slowly past. Elbows crooked out the window and spotlights blazing in front of them. Their drunk, hollow eyes look at us, sitting there on the veranda on that shitty vinyl couch. One yells something out at us. Then they’re gone, round the corner, down the street followed by the warm taillight glow.

My skin looks brown and smooth in this weather. I stretch one arm out in front of me and look at the oily, sweaty skin in the soft yellow light. It looks beautiful. I roll the cold bottle up my arm, and drops of cold condensation bead along it.

He puts his hand on my face, and digs his fingers into my hair. He’s still not talking. I can smell the burnt tobacco on his fingers. It smells good, so I breathe in and rest my head in his hand, and close my eyes. I can hear them still inside. I think they’ve finished my beer.

Journal Comments

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