Nobody Real

I can hear muffled laughter from outside.

You step forward. The light hits your cheekbones. Your hero’s jawline. Is there a trace of stubble?

“So do you,” I say, keeping a straight face, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel my heart beat in my skin.

“I guess we both do,” you say. A shrug of your bear shoulders.

My fingers grip the seams of my skirt. “What are you doing here, Thor?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

I swallow and watch your eyes scan my reflection up and down.

“You can’t be here.”

Your eyes meet mine. “Says who?”

Then we just breathe and stare at each other. How long has it been?

“I did it, Thor.”

Your wicked smile.

“I saw.”

“Mars?” Cara bangs on the door and you disappear.

“Mars? You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just washing my hands!”

I push the lever on the swan-neck tap and swill my face with cold water.

The empty space in the mirror.

“You sure you’re OK? You look kinda pale.”

Cara’s concerned face, her cheeks slightly flushed from cheap wine.

“Yeah, I just feel a bit off. I didn’t eat. I think I’m gonna go.”

“You want me to come with you? We could get chicken?”

“Nah, I’m good, you stay, have fun.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Message me later if I miss anything.”

Her expression turns sheepish. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I’ve left it too long. He’s oblivious,” she sighs. “That ship has sailed.”

I smile and poke her stomach. “Maybe, but you’ve always been a strong swimmer.”

She hugs me again. “I love you, Marcie Baker.”

“I love you too, Cara Miles-Yeung.”

Our bodies shake with laughter and I go to squeeze her, just as she pulls away.

The bin men haven’t been.

One black bag leans on the wall under the hedge with a trail of its guts on the pavement. A bloated green tea bag, a clump of brown rice, the wilted carcass of a red bell pepper. It’s a miniature art installation made by a fox.

I step over the exhibit, through the gate and see the sign. It’s one of those cheap banners you buy from a card shop. CONGRATULATIONS! in somebody with zero style’s idea of exciting letters. I can hear Stevie Wonder singing inside. Coral always makes an effort.

Think of the end of Jurassic Park when the T. rex is roaring as the torn banner ripples down from the ceiling. Close my eyes.

You came, Thor. I needed you there and you came.

Nobody knows. Only us.

Open my eyes. Tear down the banner. And go inside.

Dusk. And I’m literally buzzing.

If you could press mute on these busy city streets and lean in, you’d hear my body crackling like a plasma ball.

I crossed over. To you. You saw me. There. In the real. And I helped.

You know I did.

At the lights, I lean on the stop sign as a fifteen-metre white limousine rolls past. Across the street, a line of five black-suited yakuza sit in the neon window of a noodle bar, slurping in unison, their dark sunglasses hiding their eyes.

The house is the bridge. Coral’s house. Has it always been there – just across the park – this whole time?

Walking in. The hall. The stairs. Your bedroom door. The heat in my chest.

A foghorn.

I look up and see a World War II German Royal Tiger tank waiting at the red light. The top hatch creaks open and a small man wearing military uniform and a white moustache as big as a broom head starts barking unintelligible orders.

I cross the street.

Why now? Why do I find the house now?

I stop on the corner. The grinding tread of the tank behind me. The neon of the noodle bar.

The fade.