The woman with the green windcheater and the grey moustache says ‘that breeze is chilly’ and she is right, because even with your back to the sun it isn’t quite warm.
The soft violet roses at the end of street need dead-heading. Already. Our icebergs are only just out and our kangaroo paws have died. We are thinking of ripping up the lawn.
In the street with the creek where you sometimes hear the frogs, a man has a concrete mixer mixing. It is not too loud, but it is Sunday after all. His mate, down on his hand and knees in the drive, is blonde and his face is round. His hat his West End red, but he gets away with it. If he were in year twelve and I were in year ten and I had ever been the kind of girl who wrote boys’ names on my pencil case, his is the kind of name I would write.
They – both of them – say hello and how ya goin in the way you might greet someone you know through mutual friends.
But I am the kind of person who never forgets a face and because of the breeze, I am not feeling warm, and it makes their hellos and how ya goins feel inappropriately familiar.
Even for a Sunday.
Even for Adelaide.