She’s got gold on both wrists, a Winfield red in one hand as she browses a fat, glossy fashion mag outside this café. But that’s how it is ’round here. I drink tea and read my book, feeling silly for forgetting the keys to the office.
On the way home, I pass yet another house-being-worked on (this suburb is renovation town, after all), as a Divinyls song leaks from a radio somewhere. “When I think about you I …”. You know the rest.
It feels good to be moving on, in various ways all at once. Something that went on too long, something else that maybe didn’t quite go on long enough. The episodic nature of life.