Late afternoon. Blank wall above the shops in Dee Why. Pine trees paint a mural there, casting their shadows across the road.
Late afternoon. Blank wall above the shops in Dee Why. Pine trees paint a mural there, casting their shadows across the road.
Far away, on the other side of the park, is the squashed shape of a dog doing poo. #dogs
A man walks past me on York Street, speaking loudly, but all I catch is a snatch of German that sounds like ‘ungelauffen!' I continue towards Town Hall, mouthing and memorising this new vocabulary.
A woman half-cocooned, in a midriff-baring sweater with a bum-length blouse exploding from its base.
A small black poodle bounces across the square on little springs, grinning up at its human. #dogs
Clouds and the smell of seaweed hang over Collaroy. The air is cold and a breeze drives it into every gap. Cars stop at the lights. A truck leads them off again with a tired roar of carcinogens. Two people walk past; the man says nothing, loudly, and they walk into the club. On the next seat along, a woman huddles in her track suit.
A bicycle comes up and the rider's eyes are cold with rebellion, with challenge and mockery. He dawdles, searching, with his air of youth and insolence, and his skin turned to leather by so many decades at the beach.
There's nothing here for him, and he drifts away.
At Spit Junction, a man boards the bus with a dark suit jacket, matching trousers and a crisp white shirt on separate hangers. He carries them like a death sentence.
A bloke sits on the long seat, 20-something, facing the door but looking down at his phone. Both hands are clutching it. Chin dropped, jaw to neck in a long, deep seam. A black thing clings to his ear and snakes inside.
Sunlight in the window. Golden stubble on his cheek. Blonde eyebrows.
Curls barely ripple the back and sides of his head with brown, but across the top a blondestorm rages with all of nature's power, waves that tower and tumble, leap into the sky and rain down chaos in the depths.
A bright green backpack nestles between his feet.
He wears black cargo pants and a white, illustrated t-shirt. His nose is straight. His bottom lip sticks out a bit. The insets on his trainers look like suede. Not blue. Brown-olive.
Now the back of a fist supports his temple, elbow propped on the padding at his side. He lifts the hand away and looks up at the destination screen, face falling as his worst fears are confirmed.
Bag on shoulder, he leaves the bus and climbs two steps at a time to the footbridge.
A blonde woman, black t-shirt, locks in a stroller and sits side-on to the little window. Big, fun-shaped glasses on her forehead. She bends forward into the aisle, impossibly low, stretching one arm to infinity. Faded blue jeans with denim hacked from a thigh. Short sleeves. She straightens and shuffles back on her bottom, but the rucksack stops her going all the way.
Grey-blue straps on black.
Bending again, almost to the floor, she rises with a picture book and hands it back.
'Bah!' she says. 'Bah! Bah!'
The stroller squeaks in delight.
Later, head turned, she drags elastic all the way down through rivers of blonde resistance. And shakes her head. And checks each shoulder. And brushes it with a hand.
A dancing girl walks in Mosman. Vast bag, gossamer thighs and a slurpee.