crying in the bath (again)

what is life but kissing your lover(s), holding your friends and reading and watching stories to try and make sense of it all

fyi this piece has some movie spoilers (dw I deleted marty supreme one though), some sex, some discussions about death.

Wednesday 4:15pm

I’m crying in the bath, again. Tears are streaming down my face and mingling with the bathwater and sweat. It’s very moist and dense.

I have a book beside me and candles on the windowsill. I’m listening to the live version of Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie and Lowell album. My brother had a baby yesterday and I wasn’t expecting to feel so much.

I try to read again, but then Should Have Known Better comes on. Sufjan sings ‘my brother had a daughter’ and I start crying all over again. I give up on any pretext of reading and sink under the water.

Thursday 10:25am

My car is a piece of shit. It is an old Forester that is only alive because my dad comes down and resuscitates it every other month. The engine light is on and the air-conditioning doesn’t work. The windows are down and the sun is biting my arm and the wind whips against my face.

A turns on the radio and we stumble on ‘Gold FM’, which seems to entirely be 80s bangers. We sing along to Come On Eileen, followed by Pleasure and Pain. There are a lot of ads.

We get to the beach and I schlep the surfboard over the dune until we see our friends lying on the sand. The beach is packed. It’s school holidays and there are kids doing surf lessons in the whitewash and kids playing cricket and footy on the sand.

I’m too excited to lie still and sunbathe — I just want to get in the water. I pull on my wetsuit, somehow managing to get a ton of sand in the legs and arms before my friend Andy and I run into the waves. The sea is choppy. An easterly wind whips the waves against the shore, rather than holding them up and letting them curl.

I’m trash. Andy laughs at me as I almost balls myself getting dunked by a chaotic wave. I’m too stubborn to give up and another wave comes barrelling at me. I paddle and as I catch it I pop up immediately. The board skates over the water. I laugh with pure joy as the wave takes me to the shore. I jump off the wave and look back at Andy, who gives me a thumbs up.

“Catch of the day,” I scream at him and laugh.

We drag our boards up onto the sand. “Fish and chips?” he asks. We’re all starving and make our way across the road to the shop.

Tuesday 5:38pm

I’m pushing my bike along the bike path and call A.

“Okay, I’m going to call the others in now.”

I call in three other friends. A and I both start yapping excitedly, talking over each other. We had just toured a block of apartments. They were beautiful, in a dilapidated Art Deco way.

We yell phrases like “natural light” and “we have to get these ones” until the excitement fades and, more coherently, we say that these would be perfect for us all to buy and live in together. There is enough space that we have privacy, but room for shared facilities too.

Some people will have kids, some won’t. Others have more money, whereas some friends are artists and probably will never have much. The things we all have in common are that we don’t have rich parents and want to live near each other.

“It’s $2 million for the whole block,” I tell them. “I’m going to call dad and see whether he has any money to help us.”

I hang up and call dad immediately. “Question: are you actually really rich and you’ve been hiding it from us our whole lives? Because now would be the time to tell me,” I plead.

He laughs and tells me he is no sugar daddy. I sigh. I tell him about the apartment block and he says he wishes he could help. But not this time.

NOTE: if anyone here is wealthy and wants to donate a few million to some plucky young(ish) people to live their communal living dream, DM me please!

Wednesday 7:53pm

The cicadas are singing and the grass crunches underfoot. A sky of pasted pink and purple is broken by vivid pink and orange cumulonimbus clouds over the horizon.

I crunch across the dry grass in my undies, hoping our 85 year old Macedonian neighbour doesn’t peek over the fence again. More for his sake than mine — I’m still sweaty from running and my face and chest are covered in small black bugs. I know he is there because I can hear him grunting and yelling as he shuffles around his garden. I think I’m probably safe this evening because he made the mistake of climbing up on the fence this morning as I watered my tomatoes naked.

I pick some basil, its peppery scent staining my fingers and filling my nostrils, and grab a bunch of tomatoes. The tomatoes are my pride and joy — cherry tomatoes, giant heirloom tomatoes, Black Russians, little yellow guys! They’re all ripening at once, but it’s fine because I have a lot of friends who want some.

I take them in and drop them at the table. A and Mia are talking about their days. Bosses, train delays, things they saw on instagram. I try and keep my cool and not interrupt them. But it’s a skill I don’t have. I tell them the figs are ready — that they look swollen and bruised and ready to eat. And that the birds haven’t realised it yet.

We rush out there, dive into the foliage of the tree. We all come away, hands filled with figs. I want to wait and save them for after dinner, but I can’t. I bite into one, the juice running down my chin as the white milk stains my hands.

We haul our bounty back inside and I start cooking pasta. Baking the tomatoes in the oven, mixing flour and egg, dropping it in boiling water. Feeling the steam against my skin.

Friday 9:15pm

The crowd carries us out of the cinema. I duck aside to pee and meet my friends out front. As soon as I step outside, I’m hit by the dry heat, feel it radiating up off the concrete, and smell the dust and incense in the air. I know my eyes are bloodshot from crying and I can see that both K’s and F’s eyes are the same. I’m not an elegant crier. I’m a ‘my face goes blotchy and red’ type of crier.

The sun has gone down and the air is pulsating with that very specific energy that comes after a hot day. Nerves are frayed and people are unspooling. There are a bunch of too drunk British lads coming toward us; a homeless person is yelling on the other side of the street; a bunch of very young people push past, one of them wearing a plastic crown on her head.

F doesn’t drink anymore so we get ice cream and sit on the sidewalk. There are hundreds of people spilling out onto the street from the bar next door and the ice cream shop, with a line that goes around the block. I don’t know what happened to ice cream flavours but these days they’re all a fusion of at least three clashing flavours: kalamata olive, raspberry and fig leaf (can you even eat fig leaf?). I settle on pandan and caramelised coconut. We sit down and immediately start trying to process Hamnet.

I tell them I had no idea it was about Shakespeare and the late reveal blew my mind! We all confess to crying so much, but not as much as the woman in front who sobbed throughout the film.

K says that she doesn’t find Paul Mescal attractive. F tells her she is wrong. “He looks so fucking hot with a mullet. I haven’t dated men in a decade and I find myself longing for him.”

The film is about the death of Shakespeare’s son, and F starts talking about how much incredible art comes after someone encounters death. She tells us she’s recently been thinking how we live such short little lives and it is stories and art that give our little lives meaning and brilliance.

I tell her I wish I had her vibrancy right now.

The accumulated heat, particularly from riding when it was hot, gets to me and I lie down on the hot concrete and watch the streetlights. Cars drive past with their windows down and music screaming out. Toca’s Miracle plays. K lies on my stomach and F holds her hand while sitting up. It’s still so hot but the night is getting late and we decide to call it.

I want to savour the feeling and walk my bike along the street. I feel good in my body. I’m wearing short shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves torn off as a singlet. A trio of queer guys are walking the opposite way, one of them locks eyes with me and we hold eye contact, smiling at each other.

He tilts his head to suggest we join them. I feel a brief pang of desire and excitement, but I subtly shake my head and our nights go their separate ways. I jump on my bike, turn on my lights, and push off.

Saturday 1:40pm

I can’t stop reading. I’m utterly engrossed in this book my friend gave me about a woman who tricks her way into the priesthood by dressing as a man and passing as the pious ‘Brother John’. Once she becomes a Benedictine monk, she discovers the passions of the flesh and has a deeply erotic and vivid physical relationship with Brother Randulf. It’s incredibly fun and I find myself obsessed with the sex scenes, where this naive woman becomes infatuated with Brother Randulf’s ‘rod’. She spends an inordinate amount of time she is meant to spend in prayer musing over it.

I’m a bit hungover and it’s the perfect book for that languid state. I’m naked, wrapped in a sheet, and feeling the dappled afternoon sunlight play over me. A comes into the room looking exhausted. She was up even later than me last night — unusual for us if we go out — and she’s paying for it today.

She says she needs to nap and snuggles up beside me as I read. She closes her eyes and drapes her hand over my shoulder and trails it down to rest on my lower back. I lean over and kiss her cheek before turning immediately back to the book.

She mumbles against my chest that she has a headache. She wants me to fix it for her.

I put my book down on the bed and kiss her forehead.

I roll her gently onto her back and start kissing a trail down her body. Running my hands along her skin as I go. I can feel goosebumps under my fingertips. I kiss around her hips, resting a hand on her hip bone and sliding another underneath her butt.

I press my tongue against her and immediately taste a mixture of salt and sweat. I am addicted to how she tastes. I start licking her gently before pushing my tongue harder. My hand under her butt pulls her up toward me and I feel her back arch as I go faster.

“Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop,” she repeats. I don’t, and soon after she grabs my head and pulls it hard against her as she cums.

“Okay, that did actually fix it,” she says as I pull myself up toward her and start kissing her gently on the lips. She grabs me and pulls me into her. I can feel how wet she is and our skin is pressed together, tight.

She says we have to be gentle and slow. That she is utterly exhausted today, paying for last night. I rest inside her for a moment and start massaging her head, kissing her lightly.

“You’re not allowed to stop doing that.”

I kiss her harder and she bites my arm playfully, and a sharp burst of pain shoots through me.

“I thought you said we had to be gentle,” I tease her.

“That was before I wanted to cum again.”

I roll onto my back and she climbs on top of me. She presses her hips hard against mine, and I can feel a thin film of sweat on her back as I run my hands down it toward her hips.

We’re jolted out of the moment by a knock at the door. We stop and look at each other. We’re not expecting anyone. Both of us shake our heads.

There is another knock.

“Fuck! Can you go see who it is?” she asks me.

“I would but Brother Randulf’s rod doth stand to attention.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about, but okay,” she laughs. She throws a dress over and goes to the front door. I can vaguely make out a ‘no thank you, not right now’ before she comes in and tells me it was the socialists door knocking for the election.

We laugh that it is early for the election and she tells me it is because they heard a rumour that she might be the next Luigi. I almost choke laughing and tell her to take the dress off immediately before any more Trots make their way to ours.

Monday 9:34pm

If I lived 1,000 lives, in all of them I know I would still be in love with football. I’m playing so well tonight. We are up against the top team and as soon as I get on the court I know I’m going to play well. My body feels strong; it feels electric. We start and almost immediately I score. One of their defenders screws up and I pounce. Only a few minutes later I score again.

By half time we are 5–1 up. I have scored three and set two up. We’re all having a lot of fun. My friend Holly comes to hug me. I warn her off that I am a sweaty mess, but she says she doesn’t care. She grabs me and tells me I’m playing out of my skin.

The second half starts the same way. About midway through the half, I’m running up the court, I can see one of our players on the wing and try to do a tricky pass with the side of my foot.

Snap! I feel it. Instant pain. Fuck.

I stop running immediately. I signal to our sub. I’m off, I tell him.

It’s my fucking hamstring. Again. It’s the second time in 5 years. I don’t even need to see the physio to tell me. We end up conceding four goals and drawing the game 5–5. I tell everyone I am probably out for six weeks. That I can’t run for a while. That I know the drill.

I’m a big sook and cry a little in the bath when I get home.

Thursday 7:45

The space is beautiful. No harsh overhead lighting — it’s all lamps, tasteful tablecloths and beautiful art. I have never been here before, but it is a friend of a friend’s house that has been converted into a restaurant for two nights. They’re spoiling us.

A five-course meal, that supposedly includes a deer that was shot in the woods by one of their friends who gave up on city life and is building his off-grid house down in Gippsland somewhere. There are still two spare seats at our table.

I’m here with Emma and Nila and we are having an incredible time people-watching. It’s a wealthy crowd. The people hosting are both wealthy — part of the city’s art elite and you can tell. There is a look that wealthy people have, even when they’re trying to dress down. It is the sheer white of their shirts: so starchy, so clean. And their shoes give it away — no matter what else they’re wearing, it’s either boat shoes or RMs.

Nila has recently moved down from Sydney and tells us the main difference she has noticed living here is that in Sydney you want to be wealthy, whereas here you want to hide it if you are. We tell her it all depends on which side of the river you are. Go Southside and it feels like Sydney.

As the food starts coming out, our dinner guests join us: The Journalist and the Lawyer. Both Emma and Nila are single and getting depressed at the prospect of finding love, let alone finding someone to fuck. Bad sex is worse than no sex, is Emma’s motto, and she would know because she hasn’t fucked anyone in over a year. Nila says it’s been closer to 2 for her. I can see both their eyes light up as the boys join the table.

I realise I know both of them: kinda. The Lawyer and I discern we have been going to the same yoga studio for years. And I have worked with The Journalist on a few stories over the year. Emma is making eyes at The Lawyer, but he seems either oblivious or not interested. “Do you know if he’s single?” she asks me as they go out for a smoke.

They come back in and tell us some of the other guys are getting agitated. It’s too hot in here. No air-conditioning. They overheard the tall, aggressive-looking guy talking about his coke problem to his friends. We laugh that it makes sense — he seems agitated and aggressive.

The food is incredible. Course after course of exquisitely put-together dishes. The heat sends the wine straight to our heads. On a table in the other room we hear the coke brothers are yelling at each other. We talk about how the Coalition between our two conservative parties broke up today, for the second time in a year. The Journalist says senators have been ringing him non-stop, trying to get him to cover their side of it.

It’s been hot for weeks and we laugh morbidly that heat records across the country are falling like confetti. Every day it’s a new hottest day on record somewhere. The Lawyer says he has been defending a lot of cases of family violence — the worst possible shit imaginable — and that violence spikes during heatwaves.

It’s about midnight and Emma makes a final effort to woo The Lawyer, telling him they should watch her favourite doco at hers. He demurs and we decide to call it a night. We spill out onto the side street. The Lawyer and The Journalist go one way, we go the other.

“He was so hot,” she complains. “I thought men wanted to fuck all the time. But it turns out a good man is hard to find.”

Sunday 5:43pm

My eyes take a while to adjust to how dark it is. There are barely any lights on and the walls are painted black, except for the one behind the stage, which is made out of that weird concrete brick. The band has already started. The room stinks of sweat and sunscreen and alcohol. The air is dense with it and we all look at each other as we enter: what are we getting ourselves into.

It is so packed inside here. There must be more than a hundred people in a space not much larger than a living room. It is so hot. If it is 35 degrees outside, then with all these bodies and no air-conditioning and just a tin roof above, it has to be mid-40s.

My skin is slick and I’m pressed up against so much skin. The guy next to me has taken off his shirt; his sweat is mingling with mine as we are thrust closer together by more people crowding in. A group of girls push into us to try and get closer to the stage. The music hits our bodies and we start moving. The band is from Darwin and, in the interlude between the first song, they joke that that is why it’s so hot in here.

“And because there’s no fucking air-conditioning, isn’t that fucking right, Dave?” the guitarist-cum-singer yells at the guy who apparently owns the venue.

It’s cowboy jazz apparently, or maybe troppo jazz, they tell us. Whatever it is, there are cowboy hats and the music is fucking perfect for this weather. More people have squeezed into the room and at this stage it is a fire risk. With many near-naked bodies sweating together and a horny band, it is feeling electric. People are squirming and whirling and the music booms across the tiny venue. I grab my earplugs and put them in; my friends see me and do the same.

I watch them up on stage and am entranced. How bright they sparkle! Who are these people when not on stage? Do they also rot on the couch and cry in the bath?

It’s so hot that I feel I’m about to faint. They play their last song and I push to the door as quickly as I possibly can. I gulp the fresh air and let the glare of the sun blind me momentarily.

Everyone spills out into the beer garden and collapses on the couches.

“Was it just me or was that set kinda horny?” Angela asks.

Everyone yells overtop of each other in agreement. We spill out of the pub and head next door for pizza and to cool down in some fucking air-conditioning.

Later, at home, I peel off my clothes and stand under the shower. The water runs dull brown with dust and smoke and sweat. My ears are still ringing and my skin hums. I turn the tap colder and stay there until my breathing slows.