There’s a grey cloud over the Clifton Hill tram stop passengers. The tram’s not here. Everybody’s looking glum. Even Matthew Sweet can’t cheer me up. A car blares pointless music as it waits to turn right. A red Jeep impatiently beeps somebody in front, startling everyone – it’s so loud, so sudden, so close to us. When the tram arrives we file in one by one, ready to face the inside crowd. »
The hanging lights swing back and forth, but not quite in time to the token muzak. A pair of Singaporeans at an adjacent table are talking so much it’s hard for them to find time to eat. We’re struggling to find things to say, because I’m still processing. I’ve got the inner city restaurant post-film blues. »
The thought of moving brings up so many questions. How much is space worth? How much does space cost? »
I’m mentally preparing myself for work when my mind’s overtaken by the clop clop clop of somebody’s boots. I look around. She’s wearing the Little Black Dress, holding hands with Jeans and Trucker Cap Boy, a cigarette behind his left ear. Overtaking them, I swing through the doctor’s section of the hospital carpark. Somebody’s listening to opera in their (expensive) car, the soprano nearly blocking the sounds of the boots. »
As we landed, I noticed the powerlines in the distance, an orange sky behind them as they sat on the horizon. I guess I’m home again. »