TWO
‘Get fucked.’
The man waiting for his takeaway coffee throws a scandalised glare at Abbey, who’s perched outside One Fine Cup like she owns the entire footpath.
She’s leaning against the whitewashed wall of the café, legs stretched out in front of her, short black hair tucked neatly behind both ears as she takes a sip of her iced latte.
Her expression is a blend of disbelief and second-hand horror as I rehash last night’s saga with Mr Lululemon.
‘Wait – did you even finish?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I sigh into my flat white. ‘He bailed right after getting me an ice pack from the freezer.’ I tilt my chin and gesture to the faint pink bruise blossoming under my right eye.
Not life-threatening, but visible. ‘Fabric didn’t break the skin, so it earns a nine out of ten.
Super comfy, great stretch. Would not recommend for bondage unless you’re into surprise slapstick. ’
Abbey’s wide brown eyes squint at the mark. ‘Such a shame. Wasn’t this the one you said looked like a young Hugh Grant?’
I nod, caffeine-deprived and morally defeated. ‘Sometimes I want a guy who’s into regular, no-frills, still incredibly satisfying vanilla sex. Is that too much to ask?’
‘Ah.’ Abbey hums knowingly. ‘You’re in search of the elusive dependable dick.’
There’s an offended scoff from behind us. I glance over to find the same man – mid-sixties, salmon-coloured boat shoes, The Australian tucked under one arm – now frowning as though we’re personally responsible for the death of polite society.
Abbey doesn’t even blink. ‘Not to be confused with limp dick. That’s a cousin. But only by marriage. A dick-in-law, if you will.’
I smile. ‘Naturally.’
‘I mean,’ she says, slurping the last of her drink, ‘what’s not to love?’ She holds up her fingers, ticking them off. ‘Consistent.’
I nod. ‘We love a scheduled king.’
‘Gets the job done.’
Another nod.
‘Spends more than two seconds on foreplay.’
The man is full-on staring now. To him, we may as well have walked into the café and yelled ‘Anal beads!’ for sport.
Abbey continues, oblivious. ‘Knows where the clit is and what to do with it.’ She glances up. ‘I’d argue that part is critical.’
The barista calls out for a strong short black. Nothing happens. Salmon Shoes is too busy looking appalled.
‘And finally,’ Abbey says, holding up one last finger, ‘can multitask.’
The barista tries again, louder this time. The man finally jolts into action, snatches the coffee and hurries off in a flurry of moral panic. But not before throwing me and Abbey one last look – the kind that blames us for the Australia Day debate and why his son came out as non-binary last week.
I sip my flat white and place it gently on our makeshift table – an overturned milk crate with a sheet of plywood balanced on top. Like I said, I live in the broké part of town.
‘Seriously, where are these men? Or am I destined to be dead and buried under a pile of Friday night Tinder dates and half-priced cocktails?’
Abbey snorts. ‘I told you. They’re elusive in the way that unicorns – or a tampon ad that doesn’t involve women in white jeans riding horses – are elusive.’
I groan. ‘Actually, I’m pretty sure the last one I found was that influencer guy from Avalon.’
Abbey snaps her fingers. ‘Yes! The one who said, “My parents live in Avalon, but I live in the moment.”’
I nearly spit my coffee across the crate. ‘Jesus. Don’t remind me. I lost five IQ points on that date.’
‘Speaking of living in the moment …’ Abbey side-eyes me over her now-empty cup. ‘Have you packed for Ella’s wedding?’
I let out a strangled noise that resembles a dying koala. ‘No. I’d rather pack my bag the night before.’
Abbey and I are due to fly up to the Northern Territory next Friday for Ella’s wedding that weekend.
I’m still hoping to come down with shingles or something equally inconvenient, preferably with a dramatic rash, so I can skip it.
But, as per usual, the universe offers me robust good health and a window seat on a Jetstar flight to what I’ve affectionately dubbed Bum-Fuck-Nowhere.
‘Well, get your shit together,’ Abbey says, kicking at my foot with her sandal.
‘Ella will lose it if you miss your flight. I will too – but mostly because I refuse to be one of those tourists who go missing in the outback. I’m not dying for someone else’s wedding hashtag.
’ I roll my eyes as she adds, ‘And I refuse to be featured on a true crime podcast. That’s a very real fear of mine. ’
‘No one wants to be featured on a true crime podcast,’ I mutter.
Abbey shrugs. ‘Either way, you can’t make me do this alone. You’re my support person.’
‘I won’t,’ I lie. God, I hope I will. Does that make me a terrible friend? But honestly, it’s on Ella. I mean, who moves to one of the most remote parts of Australia and then expects everyone to fly out there for a bush wedding?
‘Good,’ Abbey says, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. ‘Because I’ve got it on good authority that the men up there are somethin’ else.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Let me guess. Your good authority is also the only person we know up there, who is Ella? Who is getting married to one of those men?’
Abbey lifts her empty cup in a toast. ‘You would be correct.’
‘Well, now that I know your source is hopelessly biased, I’m inclined to disagree. However, I shall reserve judgement until I’ve conducted a full survey of the local male population.’
The truth is, I don’t hate the idea of sleeping with someone outside my usual Tinder radius.
A quick regional romance with a guy whose job doesn’t involve quarterly meetings or brand development.
But how many options are there, really, in the red centre?
Who voluntarily lives somewhere with no Uber Eats?
‘Seriously? When was the last time you even went to a bar that wasn’t Brookie’s?’
I blink. ‘What’s not to love about Brookie’s? The cocktails are strong, the bathroom has real soap and the bartender lets me cry without judgement.’
Abbey groans. ‘That’s my point. You never do anything new. Aside from your Tinder rotations – which don’t count – when was the last time you did something actually exciting?’
My mind flashes to this week’s performance reviews. A real thrill ride, being passive-aggressively evaluated by middle managers who still think ‘viral’ means contagious. Other than that, I’ve got nothing.
‘I do exciting things,’ I argue weakly.
Abbey raises an eyebrow. Waits.
‘I … I—’
She holds up a hand. ‘It’s okay. I wasn’t trying to put you on the spot. I’m just saying it wouldn’t kill you to mix things up.’
I laugh, because what else can I do? ‘Yeah, yeah. I’m the vanilla ice cream in the Neapolitan trio.’
Her expression softens. ‘You’re not vanilla. I’m just saying … try something new. Take up a hobby, like painting or pottery or something. Eat at a restaurant without laminated menus. Flirt with a Northern Territory cowboy. Or whatever they have up there.’
I imagine myself painting for fun and recoil. I once took my mum to a Wine and Paint night, and she got hammered and accused the instructor of sleeping with my dad. Hard pass.
‘Less vanilla, more strawberry. Got it.’
Abbey gives me a look that says I completely missed the point.
Which I did. On purpose. Because the thing is, she’s not wrong.
I am the hobby-less friend. The nine-to-fiver who never does anything risky, unless you count sleeping with strangers who pretend not to know what condoms are.
I build fake Tinder bios for fun. I swipe as though I’m writing a thesis.
I ghost people in curated intervals. If I really think about it, there is nothing – nothing – remarkable about me.
Average height. Shoulder-length brown hair.
Greenish eyes most people think are brown, because no one looks long enough to notice the difference.
No cool hidden talent to showcase, no side quest to accomplish, no plot for revenge.
But hey, I’ve got a decent credit score and an impressive collection of house plants. So, you know – winning.
My phone starts vibrating on the crate.
Abbey peeks at the screen. ‘Tell her to divorce him already and keep the good mugs.’
I swipe at my sister’s name on the screen. ‘Hey.’
Abbey stands, brushing croissant flakes off her lap. ‘Don’t be late for our flight next week,’ she calls out as she leaves, dramatic as always.
I lift a middle finger in her direction. She salutes me with her empty coffee cup before heading off down the street.
‘HI AUNTY J!’ Gemma’s voice screams through the phone.
I pull the phone back from my ear, wincing. ‘Hi, Gem.’
‘I WANNA SAY HI TOO!’ another tiny voice yells, and then the unmistakable sound of a struggle – fabric rustling, feet stomping, a thump – and then Billie wailing, ‘GEMMA WON’T SHARE!’
‘She says hi,’ Gemma reports, ignoring her sister, who’s currently launching a full-scale coup for the phone.
‘Yeah, I got that,’ I say, laughing.
There’s a scuffle, some muffled yelling, then Gemma’s voice coming in hot. ‘MUM SAYS YOU HAVE TO VISIT MORE!’
‘Oh, does she now?’ I glance up at the sky for strength. ‘What else has your mum been saying?’
My niece doesn’t miss a beat. ‘She says you spend too much time screwing men.’
My eyes close. I inhale. ‘Interesting.’
‘I didn’t know you were a builder,’ Gemma adds.
I cough out a laugh. ‘Alright. What have you been up to, huh?’
Before she can answer, Billie shrieks again – ‘GIVE IT BACK!’ –
followed by what I think is a small body slamming into a couch and then a door creaking open.
‘Gem,’ I say softly. ‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She’s hiding in the laundry.’
I hear the phone rustle once more and then a new voice, flat with exhaustion. ‘Gemma, go to your room.’
A pause. A huff. And then – slam. The sharp punctuation of a child making a very loud point.
Issy exhales. ‘Sorry. It’s been a hell of a morning.’
I stand up from the crate, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
‘Is Greg around?’
Silence.
I already know the answer before she replies.
‘No.’
I start walking, weaving through the crowd outside the café. ‘What are you doing today?’
More silence. The kind that stretches too long. Like someone is trying to keep their voice from cracking.
‘Laundry and grocery shopping,’ Issy says finally, barely audible. ‘That’s about it.’
‘Get the girls dressed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ll be there in half an hour,’ I say. ‘We’re going to the zoo, then we’re getting ice cream.’
‘It’s ten-thirty in the morning.’
‘Exactly.’
There’s a beat. Then, softly, she says, ‘Thank you.’
I pause, phone still to my ear. ‘Issy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘You’re doing great. Hang in there.’
I end the call before I can hear her cry.