The Thousands

I ‘found’ myself the summer of 04/05. I rode the 171 through the ‘burbs listening to Bob Marley on my 20GB, black and white iPod. Metroticket in my back pocket, long beaded shell necklaces from the Apollo Bay Shell Museum, and, draped above my bed, those shitty Tibetan peace flags.

The girl from up the street and I started hanging out, our nights unfolding at The Hut. She was older than me and could buy the house blend herbal cigarettes. One sticky night around Christmas some Brazilian backpackers bought us too many Kavas. The spicy, alkaline Murray-water-shit was served in halved and hollowed coconuts and the gypsy lady behind the bar gave us orange quarters to suck the peppery taste away. We got sand on our sea-salted hair from lying on the floor out the back, counting up the 4evers in the dumb teenage luv scrawls that were carved into the foam board walls.

Days turned into weeks and lavender-laced smokes were replaced by dope, a couch and Channel V; we drifted apart. But last week I walked past. I did that awkward smile thing you give the boy you lost your virginity too. I bit my lip and held its gaze. It is happening, again…