The arse in question

Back in Melbourne and this morning in Armadale, having a coffee, waiting to visit an eye specialist to look at my cataract.

It’s an area familiar to me from many years of living or working nearby. I lived in the next suburb for over a decade, and my old massage shop is probably no more than a kilometre away. Sitting here with a coffee and a cinnamon scroll, I’m enjoying the ambience.

I caught the train here because I don’t have my car right now and because they advised me I shouldn’t drive after seeing the doctor.

I got off the train and started walking towards High Street, passing by a cafe I remember visiting many years ago – 1988. It seems a world away in time and memory.

I was there with my mum and my girlfriend at the time. We’d been out looking at places to rent. I’m not sure if I was in love at this point, but I had the notion I wanted to settle down with this woman.

I remember returning to the table we shared to find the two women discussing how good an arse I had. Remembering it, I felt like weeping. My mum is dead 10 years this year, and the woman – Margaret – is long gone.

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