Rose Leopard by Richard Yaxley

told you, I’m through with writing.’
    â€˜Vince —’
    â€˜No! No-no-no! It’s finished, Stu. The dream is over. No more half-done stories cluttering up my hard-drive, no more trendy experimental paragraphs, no more navel-gazing characters twittering about nothingness. Got it?’
    â€˜I don’t —’
    â€˜No more wanking myself over obscure words, no more crappy units for even crappier textbooks, no more saying I’m writing magic realism when I don’t even know what that is’ ‘Look, some of those stories weren’t too bad —’
    â€˜No more deluding myself that somewhere, somehow, some effete little tosser will read my over-blown prose, feel sorry for me and actually want to publish it. It’s finished Stu, gone, kaput. The nadir has landed, alongside the eagle. Got it yet? Comprendez? I’m finished. No — more — writing!’
    * *
    I mean it too. See, it’s all a matter of symbiosis. The opening of a new document, that initial, scintillating juggle of words and phrases, the lyric creation of person and place, the seductive stretch of narrative construction that has lain highway-like before me; these are all acts that are irrevocably associated with Kaz. I hesitate to use an obsolete term like ‘muse’ but it’s true that I did abandon the stifling career path of appointment / security / promotion / grope an office-girl / be the sad-arse who runs the Social Club / superannuation / retirement because Kaz encouraged me to do so. She actually believed in me — despite having read the first draft of Pears Amid Paradisio .
    â€˜It’s an allegory,’ she said, in the same tone of bewilderment that one might say ‘it’s a girl’ or ‘it’s a gigantic tumescence.’ The pages lay dishevelled before her on our best Mexican-style bedspread; fifteen months of my selfish agony, 92,439 torturously selected words — including must-have favourites like apotheosis and apotropaic — any number of potentially apot-ropaic life-moments lost to plot-dreaming and cranial overload.
    â€˜It is,’ I agreed happily. ‘Perhaps I should include that as a sub-title.’
    She tap-danced her lips with long, disarming fingers.
    â€˜Do you think people will be … okay with this?’ she asked eventually.
    â€˜Um, what do you mean?’
    â€˜I’m just wondering if it’s not a little discomforting in places.’
    â€˜Kaz, this is Literature. Literature with a capital L. It’s for people who can read and perhaps think a little. Admittedly they are the minority in this grand and noble country, but there’ll be no discomfort for those with discerning minds.’
    â€˜Literature with a capital L?’
    â€˜My magnum opus, dear wife. My raison d’être. My pièce de —’
    â€˜Okay, okay. So, let’s see if I can discern. These pears are representative of temptation, kind of like the apple in the Garden of Eden? Is that right?’
    â€˜Spot on. Bearing in mind, of course, that pears are a much more overtly sexual fruit than apples. Apples come from Tasmania and no one has sex there. It’s too rugged-up for sex in Tasmania, hence their declining population.’
    â€˜Vince, you’re babbling. Shut up a moment and listen.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜Okay. Now, the voluptuous negress called Everywoman is representative of Jesus?’
    â€˜Yup.’
    â€˜And Paradisio is like Heaven, except everything is corrupted because this weird, hippie-style God left Everywoman in charge and she was seduced by the aforementioned pears.’
    â€˜Right again. See, it’s easy — for someone with a discerning mind.’
    â€˜Mm.’ Kaz unfolded her elegant legs, came around behind, enveloped me in a hug that was surprisingly fierce.
    â€˜It’s kind of clever,’ she said carefully, ‘but don’t you think that