Jilted by Summer
I guess I should have seen it coming. And I suppose I did bring it on myself.
I've been jilted, dumped, whatever you want to call it by summer.
Last year when summer came I locked her out. Shut the curtains, cranked the aircon and carried on as if I hadn't even noticed she was there.
Instead of long, peaceful evenings together - just her, me and the mossies - I was too busy. When I did notice it was merely to complain.
Probably it was the beginning of the end when I got air conditioning in the car. We didn't go places together anymore, and I noticed I was less comfortable with her.
Then there were the nights. Where I had lain there with summer's languid heat, both of us in companiable silence, now I shivered alone and put anotherquilt on the bed.
Well - it's happened. This year I was looking forward to Summer's arrival. But she hasn't shown.
Black Queen
There she is - the Black Queen. In thls day of political correctness there she stands. Black as jet mourning beads. Black as glossy obsidian. Black as onyx sculpted into tribal forms. An anachronism without apology.
Her expression resembles that of the enigmatic Mona Lisa. However there is no ambiguity about the Black Queen. She displays no preference, akes no consort.
Men make fools of themselves for her as they do for her honour and patronage. Women regard her with suspicion, awe or indifference. In this new world of equality what value an old fashioned definition of power.
Still she has the power to draw me in. I shuffle the cards and lay out another hand of solitaire.
(Funnily enough, after completing this i played a hand and it came out. True.)
Erotica
I don't know how much more I can endure this sensation. Every fibre of my being attuned to that exotic frequency.
I drink deeply of the sweet scent until I can no longer wait. Intoxicated by the aroma: the delectable hemisphere is raised to my lips.
Aahh - the taste of that white flesh only heightens the pleasure. My mouth fills with sweet juices. Delicately, for now, I take another mouthful. Greedy, wanton abandon can wait.
For now I wish to savour the almost painful pleasure of the season's first nectarine.
(Happy birthday Ned)
Small Packages
A passenger signals for the next stop. The usual electronic buzz is instead a whistle, like that of an uncharacteristically relaxed referee.
Maybe it's because it's summer again. Flashback: I'm back in my indecently short sports uniform and once again being punished for my lack of both enthusiasm and ability.
The lurch of the tram brings me back to the present. I balance against the sideways rocking. The book is put aside against the approach of my stop.
Although physically I am inept, clumsy and unfit I travel this world and others within my head. Whilst poor in sporting statistics I am rich in vicarious experiences.
I walk through the door to my workplace, with another experience bouncing gently against my back.
I just had a horrible thought.
What if life really is about football. Art, music, philosophy - all these exist merely as adjuncts. Pictures on an advertising billboard, jingles for your favourite teams, post match interviews with coaches are the pinnacle of human existence.
Mathematics powers the tipping contest, science provides the boots and playing surface. Fashion is a footy scarf round the neck of a supporter.
Cuisine describes cold pies and hot beers. Ballet is performed at colonial stadium, opera is observed at Brownlow night.
The footy Record holds in its disposable pages the literature of this existence. Bravely the writers discuss the significance of a player's favourite colour.
Depression is reserved for those who miss out on a game. Medicine abounds with physiotherapists.
No one needs to wonder what meaning life has. There is no meaning.
There is only football.
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Very short short stories.
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