Weekend at Aireys, 1998
I couldn't get the fire to start properly. Too many inky pages of the Age rolled into sticks, not enough kindling.
She couldn't swing the log splitter, not with only a week til she was due. And i almost put her into labour from laughing at my efforts when i tried to bash some chunks off a damp hunk of redgum. That stuff is like iron, honest.
It was the end of winter, when the bulbs have sprouted but not yet flowered. Cold and wet and perfect weather to stay indoors. And in bed, since there was no fire.
We looked at the lighthouse and had beers with a bachelor's booze cruise at the pub. I stroked her face in her sleep and wished never to have to leave this time, this place.
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Very short short stories.
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