Until it kills me...

The cat breathes, her exhale making a throaty sound. A syncopated humph. The smooth swoosh of a car as it passes outside. From the sound of it, there's still the sweat of summer rain on the road.
It feels like a nice time to time travel.
My first home that I remember clearly was the one my parents bought in Wanneroo, Western Australia in 1988 after moving further out from the RAAF base. To this day I could draw you a map of the route from our home at 37 Belgrade Road to East Wanneroo...

It was a sports day and my blue school shorts offered more skin. I can't remember why we were fighting. Eleven years old, maybe twelve.
We were two or three roundabouts from home after school, driving through the fancier part of the neighbourhood where the backyards met an unimaginative man-made canal system. Where I imagined that this sort of combat wasn't an every day expectancy. She...

Anchored hands jerked the wheel
perfectly ten and two.
tossed liked the hull and bow of a passenger liner

It was quiet. No platitudes. No casseroles. No broken heart emoji laden tributes.
unspoken.
I wonder who bought the dress that they put back on the shelf. On my flesh and bones it sat, briefly, tucked into my waist with a pair of bull nose clips. But it was magnificent, and I deserved to see me in it. I won't have the joy of kissing in it next...