There was this moment.
On a coach trip between Adelaide and Melbourne, there was this moment.
We didn't sleep much the night before, our Hindley Street hotel room was icy cold, but there was this moment. We had to get up too early to make the coach departure, skip breakfast. Then the coach was late, but, you see, there was this moment.
Just when we thought we were out of range of the city radio station the driver twiddled his dial and found the country syndication, ensuring three more hours of talk radio hate. But you have to understand, there was this moment.
At the green plastic inflatable roadhouse the coach spewed us into the only flavour on the plate was salt. And I put the salt there. But do you see? None of it mattered, because there was this moment.
Heading east, eventually the sun set behind us. At a small town bypass, we turned north for a while. The sunset was in panorama through the bus windows. I was debating waking her up to show her, the light hitting her eyelids woke her anyway. She looked at me and smiled then gazed at the glorious horizon show. The red and yellow light showed off every colour in her eyes, every shade in her skin, every tint in her hair. The coach turned back to the shortest possible route. She looked back at me and realised I'd been staring at her the whole time, then she snuggled back in, small enough to sleep in those seats, if she lay on top of me a bit too.
I couldn't see her face, but I could see she was smiling.
Finally we alighted in Melbourne, tired, cranky, hungry, smelly. A twenty minute tram ride home to St. Kilda. Dump bags, kettle on, check answering machine, tea and cigarettes sitting on oversized cushions on the floor.
She leaned forward and clicked the button on the old three-bar radiator heater on the wall. As it warmed up, it glowed red and shone on her face.
That was the moment.
Parkstreet
For Jacqueline
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