a
sister to share the heat maybe I wouldn’t be this angry. But how to explain to
even my closest friends what it’s like to come home to a house in perpetual
mourning? Though I love Dessi and Sacha, they can’t help.
A tiny bit of me suspects
that I went ‘over the top’ about Abdul to prove that this new relationship
could work. Still, brooding on the way the men in my life behave makes me
resolve to never let anyone, no, not anyone ever treat me this badly again.
As storm clouds gather, my
thoughts switch to Sacha. He owes it to me that he finally
joined a gym to develop a ‘killer punch’. He only had to use this twice before
the message went out that he might be gay, but he was no walkover. ‘You’re my
closest friend,’ he often tells me. I never have the heart to tell him this
special place is reserved for Dessi. Curiously while Sash and I share lots,
like we’d never dream of visiting to a gallery without each other, I’ve only
been to his home twice. His mum is as round as a butterball and ever so sweet.
His dad only ever appears at parent/teacher nights where his bear-like stature
and booming voice are truly frightening. Sacha never mentions him. What does
this say about their relationship?
Relationships! So
complicated. Even with Dessi. I remember how, during swot vac, we decided to
veg out at the pool. Maybe I did come on a bit strong when it came to that
lifesaver. But there was no need for Dessi to go all prissy. I reckon that
soon as she really falls for someone, her attitudes will change. Agreed,
talking her into going out with Jon MacKenna was a mistake. It’s a shame she
isn’t here. Maybe she’d meet some decent guy who will help change her mind?
I check my watch. It’s
already three a.m. and still no one’s come home. No good trying to sleep.
Suddenly, I wish I was at Robert and Laura’s. There, I could be emailing, even
phoning Dessi on their landline. I just hope she isn’t getting too depressed. I
know she’s waiting on every message. I turn on the TV. There’s nothing
interesting to watch. It’s too humid to go to bed. No stars, only distant
flashes of lightning far out to sea and occasional rumbles of thunder. The air
is oppressive. Gradually the thunder grows louder and lightning flashes across
the sky in great arcs. The wind picks up and an eerie sound whistles around the
balcony. Watching, I feel myself open up to it like the fronds of a sea
anemone. As the palms on the foreshore whip about it’s like I’m part of that
storm until suddenly, without any warning, rain comes down in sheets. In seconds
I’m drenched and pushing hard to close the balcony door.
In the darkened lounge
room, I pull out my sketch book and water-pastels to try and capture what’s in
front of me. Colour is everything. Each object has an extra sheen – as if
this light, this atmosphere, contains some unknown element. The sky wears a
dull smouldering hue, and it takes me a long time to work out which colours to
blend to get that exact yellowish grey and then it’s still not right. The bliss
is that when I’m working, all those doubts that flood my mind disappear.
Half an hour later when
there’s no sign of the rain letting up, I go to bed. If only Dessi was here. I
often tell myself she’s the lucky one, what with having parents that really
like each other. But maybe my lack of a proper family will turn me into a
better artist. I never forget that I intend to make it in the world of art. I
know that I will have to sacrifice a lot to even exhibit in some minor gallery.
But many artists had unhappy childhoods. I can only hope that this will give me
an edge. I have to believe that if I keep on that I’ll succeed… or die in the
process trying.
Still no one comes home and
eventually I go to bed. I don’t know what time it is when I wake. Have I been
dreaming? Rain is still pelting against the windows. But there’s another sound.
Like someone crying. I turn on the bedside lamp. Sacha is in
sister to share the heat maybe I wouldn’t be this angry. But how to explain to
even my closest friends what it’s like to come home to a house in perpetual
mourning? Though I love Dessi and Sacha, they can’t help.
A tiny bit of me suspects
that I went ‘over the top’ about Abdul to prove that this new relationship
could work. Still, brooding on the way the men in my life behave makes me
resolve to never let anyone, no, not anyone ever treat me this badly again.
As storm clouds gather, my
thoughts switch to Sacha. He owes it to me that he finally
joined a gym to develop a ‘killer punch’. He only had to use this twice before
the message went out that he might be gay, but he was no walkover. ‘You’re my
closest friend,’ he often tells me. I never have the heart to tell him this
special place is reserved for Dessi. Curiously while Sash and I share lots,
like we’d never dream of visiting to a gallery without each other, I’ve only
been to his home twice. His mum is as round as a butterball and ever so sweet.
His dad only ever appears at parent/teacher nights where his bear-like stature
and booming voice are truly frightening. Sacha never mentions him. What does
this say about their relationship?
Relationships! So
complicated. Even with Dessi. I remember how, during swot vac, we decided to
veg out at the pool. Maybe I did come on a bit strong when it came to that
lifesaver. But there was no need for Dessi to go all prissy. I reckon that
soon as she really falls for someone, her attitudes will change. Agreed,
talking her into going out with Jon MacKenna was a mistake. It’s a shame she
isn’t here. Maybe she’d meet some decent guy who will help change her mind?
I check my watch. It’s
already three a.m. and still no one’s come home. No good trying to sleep.
Suddenly, I wish I was at Robert and Laura’s. There, I could be emailing, even
phoning Dessi on their landline. I just hope she isn’t getting too depressed. I
know she’s waiting on every message. I turn on the TV. There’s nothing
interesting to watch. It’s too humid to go to bed. No stars, only distant
flashes of lightning far out to sea and occasional rumbles of thunder. The air
is oppressive. Gradually the thunder grows louder and lightning flashes across
the sky in great arcs. The wind picks up and an eerie sound whistles around the
balcony. Watching, I feel myself open up to it like the fronds of a sea
anemone. As the palms on the foreshore whip about it’s like I’m part of that
storm until suddenly, without any warning, rain comes down in sheets. In seconds
I’m drenched and pushing hard to close the balcony door.
In the darkened lounge
room, I pull out my sketch book and water-pastels to try and capture what’s in
front of me. Colour is everything. Each object has an extra sheen – as if
this light, this atmosphere, contains some unknown element. The sky wears a
dull smouldering hue, and it takes me a long time to work out which colours to
blend to get that exact yellowish grey and then it’s still not right. The bliss
is that when I’m working, all those doubts that flood my mind disappear.
Half an hour later when
there’s no sign of the rain letting up, I go to bed. If only Dessi was here. I
often tell myself she’s the lucky one, what with having parents that really
like each other. But maybe my lack of a proper family will turn me into a
better artist. I never forget that I intend to make it in the world of art. I
know that I will have to sacrifice a lot to even exhibit in some minor gallery.
But many artists had unhappy childhoods. I can only hope that this will give me
an edge. I have to believe that if I keep on that I’ll succeed… or die in the
process trying.
Still no one comes home and
eventually I go to bed. I don’t know what time it is when I wake. Have I been
dreaming? Rain is still pelting against the windows. But there’s another sound.
Like someone crying. I turn on the bedside lamp. Sacha is in
Similar Books
