“I thought that was an Australian term.”
“Well, there’s a bit of overlap.” I handed her a mug and sat in the open doorway. Sipped.
She blew across the top, took a ginger sip, sitting in the doorway beside me, but not too close. “Damn, Errol. This is fucking fantastic.”
I smirked behind my mug. “I was in Indonesia recently, I think I told you that, and while I was there I made a point of visiting a few coffee farms. Ended up doing this little freelance puff piece on organic coffee farming for a tiny international coffee roasters e-zine. Upshot is, one of the farmers personally roasted a ten-pound bag just for me. I mean, I helped pick the cherries, helped wash them, helped out the process from pick to roast. Fascinating process. And now I’m addicted, so I’m gonna have to end up flying all the way back to that one particular farm so I can get more, because plain old store-bought garbage ain’t gonna cut it anymore.”
“No shit.” She shook her head and laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You. You literally have a story foreverything. Nothing you do, nothing you own is just…normal boring bullshit. I bet even your shoes are interesting.”
I glanced at my boots where they sat beside me, feeling self-conscious, now. “Well, I mean…”
She laughed, a shriek of disbelief. “There is! I knew it! Even your fucking shoes have a cool story.”
I sighed. “Notthatcool.”
“Not buying that for a second.”
“Fine. Short version is this—I was doing a piece on archeological digs in Brazil…last year, I think. Maybe end of the year before. I was deep in the jungle, me and the writer I was working with, some archeologists, our guides. It was a big group of us. We were making our way out, actually, the piece wrapped up and we headed for civilization after something like three weeks in the mosquito-infested jungle, getting rained on and bitten, snakes crawling all over you inside your fucking tent somehow, boots soaked, socks soaked, fucking miserable, actually. Ready for a hotel and a bed and a meal I didn’t cook myself over the camp stove.”
“This is the short version?” she interrupted.
I laughed. “Fine, I don’t have a short version. I’m a long-winded bag of self-important hot air, okay?”
“Now we come to the truth,” she said, laughing at me over the top of her mug.
“Hey, you asked.”
She nodded. “Indeed I did. So? What happened? Bandits stole your boots and you had to fight them off barefoot with only a machete and your belt?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not quite. I got stuck. Our ute got stuck to the arches in mud, and it took all of us pushing and pulling to get it out, and in the process my boots came right off while I was knee-deep in mud. Boots, socks, the whole lot. Just sucked right off. I’d packed light, so those were my only pair.” I snorted. “So, I did the only thing I could—went mud diving. Had to hunt around in two, three feet of mud for half an hour, but I found them. Of course, it was days before they were clean and dry enough to wear again, and the boots I had to borrow were two sizes too small, but still. I rescued them, and I’ve been wearing them just about every day since.”
She shook her head. “See? Stories for everything.”
“You hungry?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder. “Um…? Yeah-nah.”
I cackled. “You’re getting it. Assuming you mean you’re not really hungry, but you’ll eat if I make something, but don’t feel like imposing by asking.”
“Wow. That is a very specific nuance of meaning.” I nodded. “But largely accurate, actually.”
“I’m not much for brekkie either, so if you’re cool, I’m cool. We can finish our coffee and head out.”
She just nodded, sipping at her coffee.
After a few minutes, she looked at me over her mug. “So we’re avoiding, then.”
I reached behind me, grabbed the Chemex and refilled her mug and mine. “I’m not playing games with you, Poppy,” I said again. “I swear by anything I’m not.”
She watched mist writhe on the surface of the pond, swirling as a pair of ducks scudded down from the tree line, wings curved and legs extended, to land with soft twin V-trails on the green water.
“So you do want me.”
“Too much, maybe.”
