When o when shall I be kissed?! I must be patient, lie on my back in bed, hands clutching a bouquet of flowers to my chest, and remain incredibly still for the rest of the year. Wait for my prince/ss charming to wake me with a kiss.
Growing up in a supermarket is strange. Many rites of passage are faced within those brick walls and dimly-lit interior – love, death, a sweet sixteen, rejection, abuse, somehow finding yourself in the mix of all that.
Lou’s blue lace underwear have been hanging on the line since Friday. It’s rained twice since then and the soaked panties look sad and heavy, the one lonely article of clothing abandoned outside.
Did I look at you, catch your eye, and did we blush and quickly glance away, shy and sweet and only sixteen?
If this is a quest for truth then is Cold Chisel really the right soundtrack for it? Is there something more appropriate to listen to when stepping into libraries and archives or will my ears be forever ringing with the sound of a harmonica and Jimmy’s cigarette-stained vocal chords?
Frankie was sad. She was curled up in the foetal position on her bedroom floor, dressed in her long-sleeved, sequined, shoulder-padded dress and quietly weeping. From her laptop ‘Islands In The Stream’ by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers was playing, set on repeat.
I didn’t tell Rosie we were going to resurrect my cat until she arrived at my house. “For fuck’s sake Joanna, again?”