Night Beach by Kirsty Eagar

reflection
    portrait.

    Come
to
me!!!!
    Then
I
screw
up
the
piece
of
paper
with
these
words
written
on
it,
and
throw
it
at
the
    bin
near
my
desk.
Miss.
Flop
back
on
the
bed.
Stare
at
the
ceiling.

    I’m.
So.
Wound.
Up.
    On
nights
like
this,
when
I
am
absolutely
climbing
the
walls,
I
think
about
looking
up
sex
    stuff
on
the
internet.
    Everybody
does
it.
At
least,
that’s
all
some
of
the
guys
at
school
ever
go
on
about.
But
my
    way
is
different
to
that.

    I
change
position,
kneeling
on
the
bed,
wrapping
my
doona
around
me
once
more.
And
I
    re-‐position
my
reading
light,
angling
it
upwards
at
the
print
on
the
wall.
I
wasn’t
that
    fussed
on
Henri’s
Armchair
when
I
first
got
it.
I
picked
it
because
the
studio
was
out
of
    stock
of
the
two
prints
I
liked
better.
But
that
changed
when
I
started
looking
at
it,
really
    looking,
and
I
saw
the
things
you
don’t
notice
straightaway.

    It’s
from
Brett
Whiteley’s
perspective
as
he
sits
in
a
room
sketching.
There’s
a
Persian
    rug
on
the
floor,
a
coffee
table,
and,
through
the
windows,
Sydney
Harbour
in
    ultramarine
blue.
But
if
you
keep
looking
at
Henri’s
Armchair,
you
notice
the
naked
    thighs
of
the
woman
sitting
beside
him.
And
then
you
see
the
mattress
on
the
floor
in
    the
far
corner
of
the
room,
and
the
indentations
in
its
pillows,
and
the
painting
on
the
    wall
which
shows
what
just
happened.
There
are
spent
matches
on
the
coffee
table.

    Those
matches,
they
do
something
to
me.
By
the
time
I
get
to
them,
I’m
biting
my
thumb
    really
hard.

    Afterwards,
I
get
out
of
bed,
tossing
my
doona
aside,
and
the
cold
is
a
shocking
relief.
    There’s
a
half-‐moon
hanging
low
in
the
sky,
and
a
mist
has
crept
onshore.
The
    streetlights
are
haloed,
and
so
is
the
floodlight
down
at
the
Walls’
tidal
pool.
It’s
like
a
    beacon.
Calling.
I
open
the
window
wide,
and
the
room
fills
with
the
rumble
of
the
ocean
    spilling
over
and
drawing
back.

    There’s
the
faint
smell
of
something
scorched.
Outside,
a
scratching
noise.
A
loud
thump
    downstairs.
On
impulse,
I
stomp
my
foot,
hard,
wanting
him
to
know
that
I’m
trapped
in
    my
tower,
going
to
waste,
but
the
carpet
muffles
it.

    I
press
my
forehead
against
the
icy
pane,
breath
fogging
up
the
glass,
feeling
dazed,
    drunk,
spent.
And
for
a
moment,
I
think
that
it’s
me
panting.

    But
it’s
not.
    I
switch
off
my
reading
lamp,
moving
stealthily
now,
afraid
to
make
a
noise.
I
don’t
open
    the
blinds
on
the
side
window,
instead
I
split
them
with
a
finger
and
peer
through
the
    gap.

    Dogs.
They
are
in
the
darkness,
on
the
concrete
below,
between
my
bedroom
window
    and
the
shaft
of
light
thrown
by
Kane’s.
Some
are
lying,
some
are
standing,
but
all
of
    them
are
watchful
and
waiting.
And
each
and
every
one
of
them
is
black.
A
pack
of
    shadows.
One
moves
forward,
claws
scraping
the
concrete
–
the
scratching
sound
I
    could
hear.
The
dog’s
head
dips
as
it
follows
a
scent
trail
to
the
base
of
the
steps.

    Then
it
stands
there,
body
neither
tensed,
nor
relaxed,
but
ready,
staring
expectantly
up
    at
me.

    My
heart
has
stopped.
The
sight
of
them
is
so
strange,
so
terrifying,
that
it
is
very
nearly
    beautiful.
    And
I
don’t
know
what
it
means.

    11
    Helow

    Sunday
is
well
underway
–
I
can
tell
by
the
light.
I
don’t
like
sleeping
in
at
Mum
and
    Brian’s
because
I
feel
guilty;
I
always
get
the
feeling
from
them
that
I
should
be
up
doing
    something
purposeful.
But
I’ve
done
it
now,
so