I throw my tattered canvas messenger’s bag into the back of my tattered and sun beaten Corolla, I check the glove compartment and after pulling out everything else in it onto the floor and passenger seat I find the wallet containing all the mix C.Ds. I wind down both front windows, the driver’s side protests noisily until I thump the door panel. I walk to the back of the car and close the boot with a rattling thump, I half fall into the driver’s seat and grin at what lies ahead, a week with my wonderfully complicated girl in a house ten minutes from Anglesea and just her, no one but us.
The engine starts with a spluttering cough, I can’t help but cringe.
“I’m sorry for hitting you before, but if you behave next time I fill up I’ll buy you a tank of premium.” The car seems to accept the bargain because the engine smoker’s cough settles out into it’s ragged breathing full of kicks and splutters and then into a healthier growl. “Good Boy.” I reverse out of the drive and growl out the end of the court.

I pull up out the front of a house I’ve been walking into for over two years, I still feel gut churningly nervous. I open my door and just breathe for a moment, I consider having a cigarette first but decide to just do it, like ripping off a band-aid, my chuck tailored feet crunch up the drive and up to the clean white door, just to be different I know on the glass window set into it and pray to god it’s her that answers the door and not one of her parents. Luckily for me it is her short frame that stands in the doorway.
“Hey, you ready to go?” I deliver the greeting wrapped in added meaning and tied with promises.
“Hey Baby, Let me just grab my other bag.” She stands on tip toes and kisses me chastely then disappears into her room.

I pick up the day bag she’s left next to the front door, smile at her eleven year old brother who turns back to his computer game and return the nod I get from her father at the end of the hallway, he goes back to reading his newspaper. It definitely must be inherited on the Y-chromosome.
She yells down the corridor that she’s leaving and her dad just nods again.
After more boot rattling, seat adjusting and door slamming we are finally moving, she wastes no time in picking one of the Mixes to play and music flows through the warm summer air.

“Okay, in your opinion what is the best band of all tim? Not your favorite band because that’s Lifehouse or The Goo Goo Dolls, but the best band. I think most music people would say The Beetles.” I only have to think for a second.
“Probably Oasis actually.” She just gives me that smile that means everything and nothing.
“Good answer.” We come to a stop and just watch the ocean, we’re only half an hour away but the temperature has finally gotten to that point where it’s bearable to be outside and touching someone. We sit together and watch the sun begin to set, tracing kisses from time to time along faces and down necks. We decide to get there before the real estate agent closes and we can’t get the key.
We pull into the driveway this is house I’ve driven past countless times but never entered from the excitement that Tess has never entered the building before either but she has seen it before. We go in and then leave straight away hoping to find somewhere that sells food still open.

Luckily the general store owner was kind enough to keep the store open for an extra ten minutes while we bought enough for dinner and breakfast. We drive back to the house and Tess explores while I unpack everything. I start dinner and soon she is back with me, dicing up basil and celery. It’s kind of like a dance and we’ve done it many times before, whenever we stop something is shared, a story, a taste, a moment. We take the two plates out to the balcony, dip out legs over the edge and watch the waves roll in and listen to the sounds of the ocean and the music that drifts from inside. We stay up late and share stories and silence on an overstuffed couch in front of an open fire. Tess collapses on the ridiculously sized bed and pulls me down to hold her. After awhile we both have the same idea, we drag the mattress out in front of the fire and throw the light blankets over the top, The ember fueled glow seeps out from its cast iron lantern and bathes us in a pure orange light to sleep under.


A boy called Star

Melbourne, Australia

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Artist's Description

apparently churningly isn’t a real word, I’m hoping you’ll forgive me of this however, this is just and Idea I got from reading something a friend wrote after they invited me to use the idea if I wanted

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