Surry Hills, 1987
It has been raining, and the puddled night leaves a brilliant sheen on the pavement as I walk the length of Crown Street, up toward the lurid lights of Taylor Square. I have come from a tumbledown terrace in east Redfern that I share with three other students.
A few blocks before the gay bars and convenience stores of Darlinghurst, I stop and turn into a café. Tonight, as every Friday night, an assortment of young musicians from the Conservatorium gather and play badly-rehearsed folk jazz. I settle at my regular table, a small one against the wall, and order something cheap.
It's a lightly bohemian venue but, even so, I stand out. Partly, I am the only person here on their own on a weekend night. On my own, every time, reading with cursory diligence some academic articles on ecosystem conservation theory or, for a change, Bashō's Narrow Road to the Deep North. And partly, what makes me stand out just might be the silk multicoloured yoga pants, black kung fu slippers, loose shirt of soft Indian cotton, brightly coloured jacket, and my favourite earrings, little columns of beads that form a rainbow (for, by now, both my ears are pierced). Even though I am an introvert, and even though I don't want people to stare, these are the clothes I most want to wear.
So, on this night, the rain having crisped the air, I slip into my appointed chair. The café is crowded. Many customers are regular young professionals, typical residents of Surry Hills, which is altogether more upmarket than the neck of the woods from which I emerged down at Waterloo, which a hundred years earlier used to be a swamp.
A couple get up to leave. He is handsome and surly, dressed in whatever the magazines are saying is manly and hip just now. She is one of the most stunning women I have ever seen, with tresses of deep blonde hair. Not dressed up tight like her partner. They pay and then, for a moment, she strands him near the door. He stares expressionless into space as she floats across the café. I am startled to find her coming right up to me; she bends down and says quietly in my ear, “you are a beautiful person”.
“Thank you”, I murmur, completely amazed, and watch as they drift out the door. Wistfully I think, “then why aren't you with me instead of that twit?”
