Colt asks if I’ve heard anything and I shrug. I don’t know what to say, I hear about her more than I hear from her. I say nothing and finish my beer. When the girl comes by to collect our glasses she leans over the table and I can see down her top. There’s a small silver razor hanging menacingly in the promise of her cleavage. Her hair smells like sea salt. Colt raises two fingers in the air like he’s giving the peace sign and she nods silently. I tell him that she’ll be back when she’s ready.
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.