Im standing on the pavement outside my house, a coffee mug warming my hand, my hair dishevelled and my bare feet cold.
Its dawn. I love the way the purple of the sky stretches across to the fringes of the trees, seeping into the vivid orange of the sun.
Im remembering mornings like this when we stood out here together, a frayed, woollen blanket draped across our shoulders, coffee mugs in our hands, shivering from the cold and gazing awe-struck at the sun as its fiery head slowly rose out from between the trees. The cars on Springvale Rd would buzz past us, whipping wind into out faces.
Sometimes we shared opinions on these cars each car contained a person, you told me, and each person had a story to tell. We agreed with wonderment how it was quite amazing, this choreography of life. The cars themselves were moving capsules containing stories.
Maybe in that polished Honda, there would be a joyful father and mother, and a new-born cuddled in soft blankets.
Or maybe, that sleek, black Holden would contain an ASIS agent, investigating a terrorist attack.
You laughed at the latter example, saying that my imagination must have gone wild from reading too much Alex Rider. I protested that possibilities were open and everything was possible.
Once, we sat on the street curb, and I told you that I wanted to go to somewhere as exciting as medieval Paris, so that I could hunt on horseback all day and flirt with the lovely ladies.
Eyebrows raised, you retorted that I should shut my perverted mouth, before primly reminding me that the medieval French had never heard of McDonalds and often went for days without baths.
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