Something Horrific

I left at midday, to have lunch with my old boss, Beck, in the city. It felt unseasonably warm, overcast, humid; an oddly hot and cold sort of day, as though we were in for a change, of some sort. I took  off my jeans and put on my shorts before I left. I'm a bit of a sweater and I didn't want to be all sweaty when I got there, after walking from Fitzroy to King Street.

As I walked down Collins Street, a man came the other way with tattooed shins and calves, as though he had black knee length socks tattooed on his legs. It looked so odd, probably the weirdest tattoo I'd seen. I couldn't help but stare, but then I guess somebody with that kind of tattoo wants people to look.

Two sixty-something year old women walked out of Collins Place and were heading straight towards me, right in front of me. They were kind of leaning into each other as they walked and talked, as if they were complicit in something. The one on the right, with menopausal henna hair and a nylon bag with a cane handle, looking straight at me, said, “What happened in front of me last week was,” she looked at her friend. “Horrific.”

Then they passed me, gone passed my left ear. Swish. Out of sight.

No! I spun around. You can’t do that, I wanted to call out. What happened? What was horrific? What? Tell me!

But they were gone.


I considered following them, but wondered if they’d have me arrested. You know, if horrific things had already happened... in front of her.