Free The Dark Part of Me by Belinda Burns Page A

Greenwood was on the barbie, tossing steakettes on the
grill, his sweat dripping onto the meat. The men stood drinking and eating snags stuffed into long bread rolls, washed down with warmish beer. The women sat on plastic chairs, arranged in a
semi-circle facing the band, paper plates piled with salads, balanced on shiny knees. It was hot and itchy in the jumper and I felt lightheaded, a bit tipsy. The band sounded warped and distorted
as if they were playing underwater. I trailed the border between light and dark, where the arc of floodlight ended and the green grass turned black. It wasn’t long before I spotted him. He
was standing near the fence, chatting to Bomber and Muzza. He had his back to me but I knew it was him. He was wearing a green T-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. His hair was long, tied back with
an elastic band. My armpits prickled with instant sweat. The lawn seemed to tilt forwards, tipping me towards him. I was close enough to reach out and touch him. My hand floated towards his right
shoulder. It landed but didn’t register. I squeezed the bone and he spun around, blinded by the glare of the floodlight. I drank him in. Stubble on a sharpened jaw. His chest meatier, harder.
He blocked the light with his arm, squinting at me.
    ‘Oh. Hi, babe. You made it.’
    Babe. He called me babe.
    Leaning forwards, he pecked me, once, on the cheek. His growth grazed my face. The smell of him filled me with want.
    Say something.
But my tongue sat fat as a lizard in my gob.
Fuck, I wanted him.
He was checking me out, I could tell.
    ‘Looking good,’ he said, giving me the once-over. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
    ‘I joined the gym.’ Scott used to say he liked my curves, but from the way he was eyeing me off it was obvious he appreciated my newer, sleeker figure. My hard work had paid off.
‘You’ve put on a bit,’ I said, jabbing him in the belly, giving him grief to disguise my rapture.
    ‘Yeah, I know. That’ll be the beer.’
    Before I could stop it, my hand shot out and stroked his sandpaper jaw.
    ‘Like it?’ His voice light and cheery. ‘I’m growing a beard.’ He fondled his chin.
    ‘It’s alright,’ I said, mesmerized by his lips. ‘You look like a fisherman.’
    ‘Most chicks complain about the prickles.’
    ‘I could handle your prickles.’
    He laughed and his eyes sparkled. I couldn’t stop smiling. Behind him, Bomber and Muzza were smirking, but I ignored them.
    ‘Hey, Woody, she’s wearing your jumper!’ Bomber gawped like a drongo.
    I looked down at the jumper like I didn’t know what he was talking about.
    Scott turned to me. ‘Where’d you get that?’
    ‘She just wants to be close to you, man. Isn’t that sweet?’ Bomber puckered his rubbery lips and made a sucking noise. I could’ve kicked his nuts to a pulp.
    Muzza chipped in. ‘I’ve read somewhere about this weird mental condition where people confuse hot and cold temperatures. They think it’s cold in summer and hot in winter. Maybe
you’ve got that, Rosie.’
    ‘Yeah, right, thanks for that, Muzz, but I’m not mental,’ I said, even though I knew I was acting pretty weird.
    Scott said, ‘When we were in India, we saw a yogi walking over burning coals. They imagine the coals are chunks of ice and that’s how they do it. We made one guy show us the soles of
his feet. Not one scar. It was incredible.’ The dirty little ‘we’ was there again, crapping on everything, but I pushed it out.
    Scott turned around to face the band and I stepped up beside him, acting like I was really into the music, too. He was just about to say something to me when Mrs Greenwood screeched over the
mike, ‘Come on everyone. Gather around. Time to cut the cake.’
    ‘Better do what the old lady says. Catch you later.’ Scott nodded and sloped off. Bomber and Muzza followed him.
    I stood rooted to the spot grinning like a loon, the world spinning around me; a blur of green lawn and shiny, sweaty faces huddled