Revelation

This is the quiet that splinters to a serrated edge. Waiting for the Uber after a big night, tasting your bad breath—one too many cigarettes—worrying if you said something stupid. Maybe you leaned too far across the table. This is why you never go to work drinks, on principle—you always end up sleeping with someone. And then the next day, that big blue shadow kiss of ache, of shame.

The car pulls up, and you get in. ‘Julie to Kensington?’ you say simultaneously with the same exaggerated upward inflection, trying to offset that stilted air of being in a stranger’s car. It’s the same feeling as being alone in an elevator with a man, when he’s going out of his way to make you feel comfortable, making small noises of kindness, whistling maybe—but really he’s making it worse for the both of you. The driver’s been vaping in here, double green apple, and there’s a little plastic Mary on the dash.

‘Do you mind if I take a call?’

You don’t mind at all. He proceeds to break up with his girlfriend over the speakerphone. You want a cigarette—or to kill yourself.

It’s just hit three in the morning. You have forgotten your key again, so you crawl through the side gate to get through the back door; you have to lunge over the air-conditioning unit on the way. One thing about you—no matter the state you’re in, you will always do your skincare. In your old apartment building, the fire alarm went off once when you were in the middle of the routine, so you gathered up everything and sat on the curb in the car park in your dressing gown, using your iPhone camera as a mirror.

It’s nothing major, just the basics: double cleanse and pat dry, apply under-eye cream, serums, moisturiser—and remember the neck too—then hair rollers, silk bonnet and a final massage with the rose quartz gua sha that you keep in the freezer. Of course you take sea moss and collagen in the mornings too. A hair, skin and nail vitamin. Green juice.

When you stayed with your sister last time you’d gone home to Wellington, she lingered in the doorway of the guest bathroom, watching you lay out your toiletries. ‘Patrick-fucking-Bateman,’ she’d called you, all hoity-toity, but she won’t be laughing when you’re sixty and looking forty. It’s sad really, the way she doesn’t take care of herself. But she’s always been the book-smart one, you suppose. You examine your cuticles, their pleasing half-moon smile. Your aunt once told you that she reached fifty and people stopped opening doors for her. You’ll be different, though.

Your housemate is in the kitchen making toast. He’s a cook, works the pizza oven and comes home smelling like Guy Fawkes. You rarely see him. It’s like living with a ghost who leaves pubes in the shower. You feign soberness and say hello to cut through the humiliation ritual of it all.

‘Like ships in the night!’ You say it a little too loudly. He doesn’t even look up at you. Arsehole.

You used to love sleeping on your stomach, but it’s terrible for your skin. Sleeping on your left side is good for digestion, but then again it’ll make your face go lopsided and give you wrinkles. You learnt this from a TikTok dermatologist, so you opt to sleep on your back like a corpse.

Through your window, you notice the first magnolia of the year—a purple whisper in a pearly fist. You know just as quickly the season will evade your grasp, when the colour is slow and the smell is no longer. The petals will be just rotting clots on the path. You see bookends like this everywhere, those outstanding and particular moments—when your sister changes up her hair, or when you spy some tragic headline in the magazine rack in line at Coles—some little prickle rising up out of the slag heap of monotony, reminding you of the big world outside you. Your mother’s voice calling you fickle, There’s more to life, Julie. But is there?

Lying here, in the purple swoon of too much wine, you start thinking about those early rosy days of your last relationship. Before your insides were scooped out and rearranged. Before you broke out in hives from the stress of it all. That careful unfurling, getting vulnerable. Going on a holiday, meeting the parents. And then the dead star of it. All that fighting. Leaving too many voicemails, his housemate calling you to give it a rest. Your boss asking if everything is okay at home. Coworkers saying you looked tired, code for ‘like shit’. And then back into the warren of yourself you go. Alone.

When you wake, you crawl out of bed and go for a run to conquer the hangxiety. You’re pretty sure that last night in your drunken stupor, you told Katie from sales that she could be really pretty if she’d just put some effort in. You had pinched her stomach for emphasis. And that terrible tail-stepped-on look on her face, her boyfriend shooting you daggers… You’re scared she’ll go to HR to complain. You’re running hard and imagining exploding Katie with your mind.

You stop to perch on a cafe’s bohemian seating (a crate) and read the paper—horrors beyond comprehension, as per usual. You skip to the horoscopes. Be open to the unexpected, Gemini. The green-haired barista calls your name, and you collect your coffee from the window.

You take a sip, wrinkle your nose. ‘Skinny, right?’

They nod, but you’re unconvinced.

‘Tastes like full cream to me.’ You apologise for being that person, and they make it again.

Upon leaving, you narrowly miss colliding with a bicycle as you cross the road. A frumpy, nondescript blur in ugly orthopedic runners. You stumble out of the way just in time and the bike shrieks to a halt.

‘You could have killed me!’ you yell. ‘You fat fuck!’

On the bike is a priest, balding and rosy-cheeked like Father Christmas in those creepy vintage Coca-Cola ads. He claps his hands together in prayer.

You roll your eyes. Spare me. You return home from your run feeling worse.

There’s not too much on for the day: a guy is picking up a lamp you’re selling. You’re not willing to let just any old Facebook Marketplace pervert into your home, so you’re meeting him at a Woolies car park, like divorcees exchanging kids on their court-mandated weekend. You sit in the front seat, nursing the Tiffany in your lap.

He is knocking on your window. You shriek. He looks at you and cringes, and then you do too. There he is, the fucking priest, with his little collar on and everything. You place the lamp carefully on the passenger’s seat and roll the window down.

‘Aren’t you supposed to take, like, a vow of poverty or something?’ You gesture to the lamp, its nauseating pink-and-green colour scheme, its gaudy butterfly decal. You’re happy to be rid of the thing, but it doesn’t strike you as fit for the modest means of a priest.

He doesn’t answer. You stare at one another, sizing each other up.

‘I saw you earlier today, didn’t I?’ He asks.

‘When you almost vehicular-manslaughtered me? Yeah, I do recall it.’

He smiles sheepishly. ‘I prayed on it.’

Oh, don’t you fucking dare.

He leans through the window, eyeing the lamp, and you edge away. He doesn’t deserve it. You keep the lamp clasped to your chest. You think about driving away, running over his foot maybe. He starts to speak, and you brace yourself for some insipid churchy spiel.

‘It’s a gift for my sister.’ He looks at the lamp with fondness. ‘You’re right about my vow, but this way I can look at it when I like. I can still enjoy it.’

You narrow your eyes.

‘A loophole.’ He smiles.

You point at the bike. ‘And how exactly are you gonna get it home on that thing?’

He points to an elaborate system of ropes and pulleys. It’s almost endearing. You say okay and get out of the car. He hands you an envelope. You count the money, and then you go get the lamp.

When it’s in his hands, he makes a little noise of triumph and holds it like a baby. Seeing a man this happy would usually piss you off, for some reason it doesn’t this time. A feeling of easy mutual respect settles. He’s kind of fascinating. Like most older men, he reminds you of a monkey—earnest, underbaked, wouldn’t know how to load a dishwasher properly. But he has a kindness about him too, world-weary yet soft. Once he’s tied the lamp to the bicycle, you ask, ‘So where’s your church then?’

He scoffs a little at the question, and you’re properly offended by that.

Taken aback by the look on your face, he stumbles his way through an apology. ‘You just don’t seem…the churchgoing type, that’s all.’

You don’t contradict him.

Finally, he opens his mouth again. ‘I’ve one thing to ask…if you don’t mind that is.’

He’s gone all shy. Oh god, is he going to flash me his penis?

He holds out his arms. A hug is what he wants. The selfish fuck wants forgiveness.

Surprising yourself, you step into his embrace with great, pronounced discomfort. Your body seizes up against him, your breath catches. You expect to hate it, you want to hate it, but it’s quite lovely, admittedly, holding and being held. His pudgy frame, that comforting old-man smell of polo mints and aftershave and something woodsy underneath.

You let yourself enjoy it, but only for a moment. Then you pull away.