Drinking

Mat and I go out for drinks. I tell Mat about Carlo, he's impressed.

“There is this 18 year old…”

“There is this eighteen year old?” Mat kind of tilts his head sideways just a bit and waits.

“He’s been chatting me up.”

“An eighteen year old is chatting you up?”

“Yes.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“And where did you meet this… 18 year old who… is chatting you up?”

“In the park.”

“In the park?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing in the park?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you?”

“I was reading a book.”

“And what was the eighteen year old doing?”

“He was playing soccer.”

“You were reading, and he was playing soccer?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he playing soccer with?”

“Just himself.”

“So, he was kicking the soccer ball rather than playing soccer.”

“Yes.”

“Not, um, two pursuits I can see with a lot of cross over.”

“Well, no, I guess not.”

“So how, exactly did you…”

“He asked me to play soccer.”

“He asked you to play soccer.”

“Yes, he asked me to play soccer with him.”

“Is the a euphonism?”

“No.”

“And did you, um, er, play… soccer with him?”

“No. Soccer?”

“I did wonder.”

“I turned him down.”

“For soccer?”

“Yes. Soccer. He went back to playing with his ball and I kept reading my book, on the grass, in the sun.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“Because, um, I couldn’t help smiling, I could feel it, you know when you are trying not to, spread across my face…”

“You wanna play ball with him?” said Matt.

“Of course, it’s ‘we’ might wanna play ball with him.”

“Okay.”

“Because I think he wants to play ball.”

“With us?”

I slid my hand across the table and took hold of Matt’s hand. “Yeah. We could have fun with him, I reckon.”

Matt shrugged. “Sure.”

“See, there should be more love in the world,” I cheers Matt, as we drink our first beer.

The bar is slow. We practically drink alone.

Matt smiles and touches me on the nose, just as I am thinking I'd got away with being naughty. (you never get away with anything, not really) Matt always knows what I'm thinking.

I have steak.

He has fish.

The last unrenovated pub in Fitzroy, opposite the commission flats. You see, there are something's for which to be grateful for the commission flats. The less fashionable end of Fitzroy. It doesn’t bother the residence of the suburb, just the tourists. I guess it will get its turn.

I love Fitzroy's graffiti. It is a part of Fitzroy's character. Feminism started with my mother.