Early Afternoon

I finished work mid afternoon, just one day’s work, today, not even. I walked down to the Queen Street intersection, appropriate, even if I say so myself. I stood and waited for the lights to change, I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn't thinking anything in particular, just thinking about the walk home in the afternoon. I was glad to be out and free and on my way. There were several people waiting at the lights with me. 

I glanced sideways to see a big guy, looking at his mobile phone. He had on mirror sunglasses and he had a pieced nose. I'd say he was Brad from Mill Park, he plays on the local footy team, he goes out with Kylie, he drives a white Commodore, he has a best mate named Macca. He was looking at his phone in his right hand, as his other hand, I can only assume, was absentmindedly pulling at the pocket of his blue tracky pants, pulling the thin material tight across, what was clearly, a very large penis. Each time he tugged the material tight across his crotch anyone – stray, nosey, nearby, poofs – who cared to look could clearly see that he had a very thick, todger. 

I had my phone in my hand, as I was writing a text to Sam, “I’m heading home.” I looked out of the corner of my eye. I looked, I looked, and I looked again. I had my phone in my hand and it was pointing at him. I surreptitiously pushed the back arrow with my thumb to close my messages. I pushed my camera icon to open my camera, all the time not moving my phone at all. I had to be careful to make sure my flash was off. There have been a couple of times, just lately, when I have tried to take a sneaky photo only to have the flash go off getting everyone's attention. Then the lights changed and the little man changed from red to green and Brad changed his stance in readiness to walk, phone to his side, hand out of his pocket.

The photo op was over, oh well.

A little further down Bourke Street, when I was on Elizabeth Street, Sam called me. He was responding to my going-home text. He'd been to the podiatrist, getting a second opinion on his wart on his heal; more liquid nitrogen, the smell of burning flesh, the complaining when it hurt.

"Where are you?"

"Outside the GPO. Why? Where are you?"

"Outside the GPO."

We both turned to be facing each other practically next to each other, still talking to each other on our phones. He smiled at me like he adores me, which he does. I adore him too.

I walked him back to his office. Sam told me how the podiatrist did exactly the same treatment as Doctor Jimmy.

“You see, Doctor Jimmy knows what he is doing and he doesn’t cost $100 a visit.”

“I didn’t say that Doctor Jimmy didn’t know what he was doing.”

Sam gave me “the look.”

“I just said it can’t hurt to get a second opinion, if your problem isn’t being resolved.”

I walked home up La Trobe Street.

I've been thinking about writing shorts stories again. Maybe, really short, just an idea, don't get too caught up in polishing them.