Postcodes

Fragile, under-slept, still warm from sex with someone else, I am falling asleep and in love with all the beautiful men on the train. They are gentle, fine-featured; fragile themselves. They are preoccupied and intelligent, silently observed by their women. The light treats them softy.

Across from me, one sits with his hand resting in the lap of the woman beside him. She grasps it with two hands. He is black-suited and thin-nosed, thin-framed spectacles upon a long face, a leather bag leaning against his calf. His knees fold higher than the level of the seat. Beside him, the woman is all white – hair, skin, dress.

In the city I look up and notice details. There are window-washers suspended on ropes against the buildings, solid blocks of colour, the faded facades of heritage-listed buildings. There’s the tree whose violently-protruding roots I paced over and back after Terry died. The hospital, it’s sundry. The cars, their purpose.

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