Wood smoke. It’s still in my
clothes. None of us have changed outfits for days. It’s in my long hair, washed
half a dozen times since Gindarra, hair I’d like to lop off before we pitch out
of the Daintree and head inland to the doof; it’s in the sweat seeping from the
veined concaves where my biceps start; it’s in my nostrils even as the air is
clean. And I’m sipping on this ice water and chewing on these ice cubes, my
fingers wet with condensation, and I can see five pairs of undies J-hooked with
pink rope to the roof racks of the Landcruiser, hung there dripping after our
swim with the Stingers at Ellis Beach, and I’m thinking that it’s time I found
a girl who loves me, and I swear I can feel my boiling insides start to smoulder.
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