It's been a warm day, and the air is still balmy. You've been watching him all day, in and out of the water. His white shorts a pale flash across a tanned body. They're almost transparent when wet. He's wearing nothing underneath. He's beautiful, and you aren't.
Most visitors have left the beach. It's just you and him. He's moved closer to you, over the day. Is he .... does he .... ? You don't know. Too shy to make the first move.
He flicks his hair, like a dog, after his swim. A drop hits you and you jump without meaning to.
"Oh, sorry!" he says. His smile is warm. Genuine. Lights up his whole face, the white teeth bright against his tan.
"No worries," you say. He fetches his towel and spreads it out next to yours, and lies down. Your gaze is drawn to his groin, to the thickening among the crumpled folds of his shorts.
His towel was about five metres away and he stepped over to fetch it. Flicking the sand off – but, thoughtfully, not into Jason's face – he spread his towel next to Jason's and sat down on it facing the same way Jason faced, looking out across the scintillating blue of the bay. He produced a pair of Dolce and Gabbana dark glasses and put them on. Jason didn't have any dark glasses and found himself squinting into the glare.
“You're going to get a headache,” said the other man.
“I am,” replied Jason. “But I won't be staying too long, I have to meet someone at four and get showered and get changed for work. And it's midday now.”
“Here, borrow this hat. It'll shield your eyes.” The bloke handed over a baseball cap with NYC written on it. “Hey! I suppose we’d better get introduced. What would Miss Manners say?”
Jason grinned at him. He instinctively liked the other man.
The number 1 tram ran down Swanston St, one of the main streets in the city, crossing the line he'd just got off, right next to the café where he'd had his coffee and croissant. It couldn't have been simpler. He had to ask a few times for directions, but people seemed happy to help, and he caught a few glances from both the men and the women, glances which said, you're nice, or I think you're cute. But Jason was in no mood to play these games. It was bad enough that he'd already had sex with a total stranger, and enjoyed it, and made all sorts of implicit promises, but he knew now what he wanted. Friendship, and no more. He had given his heart to Brent and he would never do anything like that again. Love was magical and perfect while it lasted but the grief when it ended was intolerable. Never again! he swore to himself. I'll never give my heart over to someone else’s keeping again. Never.
The sight of a young couple, obviously deeply in love, filled him with a piercing sorrow. I'll never have that again, he thought. And all at once a grief so deep it close to overwhelmed him filled his heart, and he had to peer out of the tram window to hide his face and his overflowing eyes.
Tonight we switch to daylight saving time. I love the long evenings of summer time, but I hate the switch. I feel discombobulated for ages. And we lose an hour in bed. Bleagh.
But it couldn't be a nicer day to welcome in summer. Not a cloud; a sky of washed, happy, baby-blue; the Japanese maples in blossom and leaf; the ash tree's buds fecund with promise, even the pinoaks (always the last to come to the party) swelling visibly. In the lawn there are tiny purple stars, perhaps a fraction over a centimetre across, and even tinier white stars, with yellow and black centres. White daisies, the underside of each petal edged with purple. I think they're a kind of bellis perennis. They're perennials, as the name suggests. There is also another kind of daisy, an annual, which my dad used to call gousblom, a wonderful warm yellow with a black centre. Oxalis are everywhere, lining the freeways, filling the roundabouts, blanketing the grass of the freeway interchanges with an acid yellow, so bright it looks as if it could be used to etch metal. We have some in our garden. How joyful they are!
The cuttings I took at the old house have almost all taken, and need transplanting. The wisteria, newly planted last year, so not yet prolific, has 4 or 5 fat hairy buds just ready to burst into flower. Wisteria in flower remind me of many happy times in the past: sitting on the stoep with my best friend, the air mauve with blossom, sweetly, headily scented; sitting with my mother when she could still sit, on her veranda, sharing a Sunday drink. The penstemon seedlings and cuttings are all in flower, with flowers ranging in colour from white through pale pink to hectic crimson and deep purple.
For me, my garden, and other people's too, is a source of great comfort and joy. Despite all the things wrong with my life, I have all this beauty on my doorstep, and all the evidence I need that I am part of nature, part of the cycle of life.
