I glance off her curves and come over kind of car sick. I have to take my eyes away but she follows them around to my side of the desk and perches on its mahogany lip. I pour myself a whiskey and watch her drain it. She lights a cigarette and asks me if I mind, her words blown through smoke rings like a Lewis Carroll chrysalis. Sure, I say, what she’s doing has to be illegal somewhere. Neither of us laugh, so I pour another shot and hand it to the fist of nerves clenched inside my stomach.
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.