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Authors: Rebecca Lim
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lovelorn nerd-boy wanting to rub his consonants against me. I don’t know how
he found me, it’s not like I have my gamer name— Cenna —tattooed onto my forehead,
but I no longer care. He’s my longest relationship, ever. And he plays bloke words
like pec and scrotum , so QED, right?
Bastard , I write absently into the message box, before setting my phone down. What
am I doing playing games with ghosts?
I suck in a horrified breath. Take it back, take it back.
I roll over the side of the bed, landing on my hands and knees on the fat floor cushions
lined up along the side. Mum laid those down for me herself the day we moved our
belongings in. With the rocking, I often fall out of bed and she’d said: Soft landings
for you, my darling, always . They’re red and orange, like a sunset. Or a fire. It
always comes back to that.
Eyes welling, I jump under the freezing shower water that tastes of iron, scrubbing
myself a raw pink as the water warms up. By the end, it’s always searing, and I give
myself an extra five minutes because there is no one else to conserve the heat for.
I climb into the same passion-killing outfit from the night before, then shove my
phone, wallet and Mum’s journal into my pack that still smells of bananas. It’s not
yet 6.30, but it’s a Saturday, and Paolo will be opening up at the bakery on Swanston
Street that I’ve designated as my local.
I have a thing for Paolo, with his coffee-coloured skin, curly man-bun and dancer’s
body. Whenever I order a coffee and something loaded with custard, he makes me feel
pretty, if only for the time it takes me to dig out the right change. That’s our
deal: a little light flirtation for $7.80. Just seeing him is better than the caffeine,
and if I don’t get my regular hit of him I get cranky.
I feel forward with my toes down three gloomy flights of stairs towards the pool
of streetlight coming in through the glassed-in street door. After it slams behind
me, I breathe out. A cloud that’s white, like dragon’s breath, against the dark sky.
‘Good morning,’ someone says beside me and I swear to God I leap two feet in the
air. He’s leaning against the red-brick wall beside the bean sprout company plaque
and his nose doesn’t look quirky or interesting in the streetlight; it looks broken.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss, already backing away. This must be an outer ring
of purgatory, and somehow I’m stuck sharing it with Simon Thorn.
He’s wearing a heavy plaid Bluey jacket and grey knitted beanie, and he keeps pace
with me easily as I power down Little Bourke Street, cooking smells already staining
the early-morning air.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says awkwardly, ‘you know, last night? I didn’t mean to say—’
But I hold up one hand as my phone rings, knowing very well what he meant to say.
‘Avicenna speaking.’ My voice is clipped, unfriendly, spikes in all directions.
I pull the zip up higher on my hoodie and turn left towards the Three Kings’ Bakehouse
as the man on the line says, surprised, ‘Did I wake you? I just meant to leave a
message.’
‘Who is this?’ I reply, brushing off Simon’s outstretched hand as I stub my sneakered
toe in a tram track and almost go down face-first. God .
‘Detective Senior Sergeant Stan Wurbik,’ the man responds apologetically. ‘We need
you to come in to the St Kilda Road Police Complex this morning. Some questions.
Need to talk options. Get more consents. And your laptop, we’ve looked at it. You
can have it back. Expect you need it.’
Wurbik gives me directions as I duck into the bakery and breathe in the smells of
super-refined flour loaded with lard, sugar and other goodies. Paolo sees me and
waves from the back where he’s de-bagging coffee beans, pouring them in a tinking steady stream into the grinder. Like mine, still damp from the shower, his hair is
out, all down his back in dark waves.
As Paolo comes forward, I catch this look on his face—when he works out
he found me, it’s not like I have my gamer name— Cenna —tattooed onto my forehead,
but I no longer care. He’s my longest relationship, ever. And he plays bloke words
like pec and scrotum , so QED, right?
Bastard , I write absently into the message box, before setting my phone down. What
am I doing playing games with ghosts?
I suck in a horrified breath. Take it back, take it back.
I roll over the side of the bed, landing on my hands and knees on the fat floor cushions
lined up along the side. Mum laid those down for me herself the day we moved our
belongings in. With the rocking, I often fall out of bed and she’d said: Soft landings
for you, my darling, always . They’re red and orange, like a sunset. Or a fire. It
always comes back to that.
Eyes welling, I jump under the freezing shower water that tastes of iron, scrubbing
myself a raw pink as the water warms up. By the end, it’s always searing, and I give
myself an extra five minutes because there is no one else to conserve the heat for.
I climb into the same passion-killing outfit from the night before, then shove my
phone, wallet and Mum’s journal into my pack that still smells of bananas. It’s not
yet 6.30, but it’s a Saturday, and Paolo will be opening up at the bakery on Swanston
Street that I’ve designated as my local.
I have a thing for Paolo, with his coffee-coloured skin, curly man-bun and dancer’s
body. Whenever I order a coffee and something loaded with custard, he makes me feel
pretty, if only for the time it takes me to dig out the right change. That’s our
deal: a little light flirtation for $7.80. Just seeing him is better than the caffeine,
and if I don’t get my regular hit of him I get cranky.
I feel forward with my toes down three gloomy flights of stairs towards the pool
of streetlight coming in through the glassed-in street door. After it slams behind
me, I breathe out. A cloud that’s white, like dragon’s breath, against the dark sky.
‘Good morning,’ someone says beside me and I swear to God I leap two feet in the
air. He’s leaning against the red-brick wall beside the bean sprout company plaque
and his nose doesn’t look quirky or interesting in the streetlight; it looks broken.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss, already backing away. This must be an outer ring
of purgatory, and somehow I’m stuck sharing it with Simon Thorn.
He’s wearing a heavy plaid Bluey jacket and grey knitted beanie, and he keeps pace
with me easily as I power down Little Bourke Street, cooking smells already staining
the early-morning air.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says awkwardly, ‘you know, last night? I didn’t mean to say—’
But I hold up one hand as my phone rings, knowing very well what he meant to say.
‘Avicenna speaking.’ My voice is clipped, unfriendly, spikes in all directions.
I pull the zip up higher on my hoodie and turn left towards the Three Kings’ Bakehouse
as the man on the line says, surprised, ‘Did I wake you? I just meant to leave a
message.’
‘Who is this?’ I reply, brushing off Simon’s outstretched hand as I stub my sneakered
toe in a tram track and almost go down face-first. God .
‘Detective Senior Sergeant Stan Wurbik,’ the man responds apologetically. ‘We need
you to come in to the St Kilda Road Police Complex this morning. Some questions.
Need to talk options. Get more consents. And your laptop, we’ve looked at it. You
can have it back. Expect you need it.’
Wurbik gives me directions as I duck into the bakery and breathe in the smells of
super-refined flour loaded with lard, sugar and other goodies. Paolo sees me and
waves from the back where he’s de-bagging coffee beans, pouring them in a tinking steady stream into the grinder. Like mine, still damp from the shower, his hair is
out, all down his back in dark waves.
As Paolo comes forward, I catch this look on his face—when he works out
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