An Odd Kind Of Wonderful

Chapter Twenty-Five

    "Do we need back stories?" Joel says, quietly.

    "The way you said that makes me wonder how many illegal activities you've been involved in before," I say. Joel looks at the car's floor. "And no, we don't. I think we should just tell the truth."

    "That's a great idea!" Joel rolls his eyes. "Yes, officer, actually. We've vandalized council property, broken into a cemetery, had our car stolen, stole our car back, trespassed onto someone's property, and smoked weed that we didn't even pay for!"

    "You smoked weed?" Raisa shouts.

    "We trespassed?" I say at more or less the same volume.

    "The twats who took my car left a bag of weed under the seat," Joel says. "And remember where we watched the fireworks? Yeah, that's someone's private lookout."

    "I hate you." I bury my face in my hands.

    Joel repositions himself and falteringly takes the steering wheel. "We're going back to the Bridge pub."

    Raisa doesn't speak. I feel the car move out of the ditch and my stomach feels like I've left it there. I grab Raisa's wrist and ask in a hushed tone, "How's your ankle?"

    She looks straight at me. "I am in so much fucking pain right now."

    My face falls. I rub the pad of my thumb over the bump of her wrist bone. "Do we need to go to the hospital?"

    Raisa looks at where I'm touching her, and then up to my eyes. "No," she says, "I'm okay."

-

    Sydney has resumed, apparently. People are now on the streets, walking their dogs and looking at the windows of stores to determine when after the Christmas break they will re-open. Woolworth's is open, and that makes me try to remember whether or not I have an upcoming shift, or if they even want me there at all, anymore. It seems unreal, and a part of me starts to think that this is the weird existential part of the dream I've been having all night.

    But Joel flicks on a song on the radio, featuring what sounds like whistling and maybe a bit of distorted guitar but arguably little else, and I start wondering if everything other than last night was a dream.

    I like the song. It sounds like a rusty coffee machine. 

    Raisa has stopped thinking about her ankle, at least, I think that's what happened. A few hundred meters ago she became mute and instead looked out the window. Another hundred meters pass—two, three, seven, nine, one kilometer, and she's in the exact same position.

    Sunshine pours in from all sides; the irrevocable plea of the Australian summer, and I'm reminded where I am, who I'm with, now that the cold night has been lifted. It's mind-bending to think I've forgotten. Raisa's face is lit up by that same sunshine, and I like to think I'd stay alive, just for this.

    -

    The Balmain Bridge appears on the horizon, and I'm surprised to see no police cars hustled around it. The walls of the pub are covered in people's drinks and tasteless graffiti, and already I'm thinking I'd really like to get another fake I.D. so I can revisit this little oasis.

    Or, I could wait two years until I'm legal to drink.

    But it's the 21st century now, and if there's anything I've noticed it's that nobody has any patience.

    We've become quiet—even Oasis has stopped singing—as Joel drives up the hill and turns into the car-park. It all feels too real, if that makes any sense. The bar looks pretty closed, as it should be, being as it's eleven in the morning, but the little garden area out the back is littered with a few hungover-looking people eating steak and chips, the beer glasses next to their plates with beads of condensation on the glass.