Lying on a picnic rug in the sun at a music festival on a cider farm in a forest.

I saw you standing there

With your fucking Ned Kelly hipster hair.

I thought I saw you maybe looking at me so I put my Blunnies back on and wander over.

G’day, did we go to primary school together? Yeah, hi! Wondered if it was you under all that beard. I used to have the biggest crush on you in Year 4. Ha! Nah I don’t remember you kicking me in the face at soccer. Ya drew blood? True? Classic!

We talk through one band then another.

We face the stage and stand closer so we can talk into each other’s ear and sometimes our shoulders touch. Once, when you laugh, your hand gently holds my elbow for a second. A tiny pale faced singer in a white tunic sings over and over

If you feel like taking flight…


We talk until it’s twilight. We talk until it’s dark.

We talk until we need to go to the loo then sit down somewhere. On the back of the composting toilet door someone had written in blue crayon

There will never be a more opportune moment…


We wander away from the main stage, past the pond and paddock with the big old oak tree in the middle, up to a little wooden shack with a band on the veranda.

There is moonlight on the paddock.

There are songs about stars.

There’s a fucking string quartet playing.


There was space between us on your picnic rug.

As the string section lifts us up

My fingers brush yours as you pass the tin cup.

My first ever whisky. Warm and tingly and lovely in my mouth, my throat, my chest.


We look at that old oak tree.

Then we look at each other.

We grin.




2 thoughts on “Whisky

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