seen in byron bay the other day
There’s no working up to this, some days it gets handed over for nothing, these little shows. Today was Little Richard day, or Miles Davis day –
Three fellows walking past the Byron paper shop yesterday, all abreast.
The one of them nearest the shop window looked like these two guys combined but a little more ragged, his hair in old coils and wearing a snap-brim hat. Everything on him coloured black except for a little sunset gold on a dusty cardigan half-slung over one shoulder. The brother in the middle was a blue-chinned heavy-armed Leb stand-over model, and the last one was the apprentice knock-down artist. White on white, black on the side.
They just moved on by. Cruised on by. Looking at everything like it’s the first time they’ve been in town. Looking like they’ve been in every town in the country but Byron. Everyone coming at them let them by. It’s a step-aside town Byron Bay, in daytime.
Then the babe.
Everyone comes to the Bay, from everywhere. Every day.
This girl from somewhere just kind of squeezed past the window and the little coil-haired guy in the snappy hat, she was walking the same way but going quicker. She was wearing something whispy, diaphonous, silky, and transparent – all those things a fellow notices in the small pure portion of time he’s allotted before his blood quickens and whispers its traitorous intent.
Blonde, tall, and graceful as she slipped past: a faint displacement of air, perfumed, she trailed.
The hat turned as she passed, both shoulder to shoulder now, and with the suave aplomb of an unregulated Hunter S. Thompson, he said, in a handsome and cultured voice,
She, after an instant’s hesitation, said back,
They walked on.