I take the pamphlet from her and let the spiel go over my head. There’s a scar crossing her nose like a spectacle bridge, I want to run my thumb over it when she smiles. I rest my eyes on her lips and ride the cadences spilling from them, rollercoaster consonants powered by enthusiasm. Her voice feels like melted butter smells. She stops when I take her hand and put the pamphlet there. Even in the shadows her fingers are warm. When she retreats, there’s an apology in her movements that doesn’t show in her eyes, so I smile.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.