Their eyes locked across a crowded room at the cocktail bar. He looked well-heeled and handsome, and his brazen gaze told her he knew it. But she was his equal with pert features and confidence. They raised their glasses to each other. And then found themselves crushed shoulder to shoulder at the bar.
The policewoman at the front of the Court is trying to catch my eye. I have a thing for women in uniform. It's what attracted me to my wife. That night we met, in the pub across the road from the hospital where she worked as a nurse. I couldn't stop fantasising about the front zip on her uniform.
Nadine lies on her mattress on the floor of the attic. She stares up at the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling and the moth circling it. Wind gusts through cracks under the doors and windows, whistling down hallways and upstairs, carrying with it storm-muffled moans of Paul and the new housemate.
"And the winner is–" Zoom freezes on my laptop. But I don't care. From the gallery director's opening comments in her awards speech, praising this year's portraits, it's clear my landscape has not caught the judges' eyes. Again! However, I've learned to channel disappointment into creative energy.
It was a hot drink. Hands flaying, trying to disengage from his depraved grip, fighting off his unwanted advances. First and last date with this man. So, this is internet dating? Disparaged and feeling sorry for myself, I drove off. Nothing expected or implied. How simple? I was old enough to know the risks.
“Ladies and gentlemen, though I use that term loosely,” the pub laughed, and the MC smiled. Laughter signalled the crowd was well lubricated. The publican would be happy. “It’s the final of tonight’s Lagermind,” the MC continued. “Calling Thommo and Moley back to the stage. Or should I say, stagger back?”