February 13th
My legs are tangled in the sheets and my mouth is dry. In the grey pre-dawn, my heart is racing and I’m gasping with panic. You are so close, but I am letting you go. I try to sit up but can’t. Too sick. There are pill packets, still full, stuck to my sweaty cheeks.I peel them off and throw them aside. I can’t do anything right.
I turn over and try to forget.
I dream about driving towards desert rocks, with Rose beside me. I lean over and kiss her on the lips, and she laughs and places her arm across my shoulder. I tap my hand on her thigh to the beat of music and she squeezes me tight. It’s nice and it’s not you.
When I wake, it’s even hotter. I don’t get up to turn the air-con on. I want this sweat, want the water inside me to evaporate, want to be left a husk.
Did I imagine you yesterday?
I try to push the sheets back, but everything is spinning, and I am upside down. There is vomit on the sequins of my top.
Dear Rose,
I’m thinking about where I’d go if it was my last trip. My perfect trip would be more than just Perth. I’d hire a 4x4 and head into the Western Deserts. Straight up the Great Northern Highway, past Cue and Marble Bar and Meekatharra, towards Newman, where there’s a turn-off onto a track. I’d follow this track for hours, days maybe, until it peters out. Then I’d drive over red-as-blood sand, until I reached a beautiful stretch of land, secret land. The colours here are brighter than anywhere, the horizon bigger, the silence deeper. The perfect place to run to. I wanted to tell you. I don’t know why, but you seem like the kind of customer who’d understand.
February 14th
I slump against the bed, shut my eyes and listen to wind on the windows. The building is swaying. There is nowhere else but this hotel room and these thoughts of you.