I go inside and find Zoe’s father sitting by the window, staring at the sky. He does a little jump when I come in, as if I caught him by surprise, like he wasn’t expecting to see me there, standing in his lounge/dining room in the middle of the afternoon just a few days before Christmas. That’s OK. I wasn’t expecting it either.
Me and Kurt like to drive. Not that we’ve got anywhere to go. We just like to drive. It’s something to do.
The estate agent is waiting for us at the house. She is excited. It’s a real cutie, she says, a deceased estate so sure to sell cheaply. This is a nice suburb.
…the boy moves through the cafe I’m sitting in the window sliding between tables watching a big sheet of bubble wrap the waitress is preparing being blown down the middle and scoops up the purse of the street
Good morning ladies and gentlemen and welcome aboard this Deluxe Express service. Before we commence our journey, weaving a halting dance of departure through clogged city streets to mournful suburban stops, I must remind you that the purpose of our journey is not simply to get from one place to another.
‘It’s your mother,’ says Zoe, handing me the phone.
I don’t mind taking the call even though there’s something good on telly that I want to watch. I reckon I can still watch it without the sound, so that’s OK.
OK, it begins at three o’clock in the morning and I’m standing in the rain with the thunder and lightning very Lear-like and the wind in the Desert Oaks going whoo whoo like some crappy sound effect.
The woman behind the counter is having a bad day. I know that because, at one point, her assistant leans towards me and whispers,
‘It’s OK. She’s just having a bad day.’