9pm. I am woken to Sam saying hello, which pretty quickly leads to, “Are you stoned?” There is only a second to Sam was checking in the desk, by the time I fully opened my eyes, he is turning to me with his hand raised. He hits me once, he hits me twice. I begin to recoil from his hand. “Hello dumpling, did you have a nice flight?” Crawling up the couch and away from my flailing love.
And that was that, pretty much. We both sat at the coffee table, something in my, certain to be, dreary-eyed explanation made Sam laugh, and the steam from his protests was released.
“When are you going to Brisbane next?”
He couldn’t help but smile. It must be soon, by the spread of smile across his face.
We sat up watching the post mortem of the election with open mouths, secretly thinking despite its shortcomings Australia really is the best country in the world, despite our dark right-wing forces amassing in the shadows at the edges of our political system.
Sam announced twice it was time to go to bed, but didn’t move. And when it didn’t look like I was going to bed, that I was waiting for him to go to bed, he got up and manhandled the mull box and after I took it away from him, he mumble something about rolling one for him.
“I’m sorry,” I said, when I thought I understood what he meant. (I just wanted him to repeat it clearly)
“Roll me a joint.”
My work is done.
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