F*** he’s beautiful. That dusty checkered shirt, outback swagger and worn out acubra like from those old Australian westerns. His voice is as smooth as hot, corrugated sheet iron and he holds your gaze like he’s never had anything to hide. He spins a good yard and is good at parties I bet – with that twinkle-eyed charm that turns you all dewy. How did the universe pull him straight out of a century-old bush fable? I hear he come up my driveway – an unannounced visit. The wheels of his ute crush against the gravel and my head spins and whizzes into the afternoon sky.

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