little bit

She has a small scar above her left breast where when her clavicle had cracked and torn its way out through her skin. His rough fingers ran over it, jagged edges slightly raised and pink, hardly registering to his touch. She met him five nights ago, he’s been in her bed four of those. Tomorrow he will leave with the trucks of doomed cattle headed for the sale yards. Tomorrow he would drive along hundreds of kilometres of straight roads, white line after white line straight down the middle. The day after tomorrow he would stand with others like him, tight jeans, big belt buckles, rabbit felt hats, waving flies from their faces, cue fever drifting invisibly in the hot dry winds. Sad faces with brown eyes, tired and displaced, jammed in together sensing their fate. Prime cuts, damaged rumps? Dingo bites? Hand raised, hammer down, ‘sold’ says the auctioneer. Moved again, carved up, packed up, vacuum packed, no mess, no fuss. Mum at Woolworths buys 2kg of sausage and some BBQ steak for the weekend. The kids like sausages. That’s tomorrow, right now she rolls toward him and digs hers hands into his hair. Right now he runs his hand from the scar down her sternum. Right now she doesn’t care about tomorrow.

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