Sunday, April 30, 2006

...already old, walking into sunday and I find..

These are the last moments before sunday comes - Saturday night already leaving behind a faint taste of melancholy on your tongue. A cool smooth 'hardly there' breeze drifts over the Yarra and you, on Princess Bridge, look out over Southbank with its many restaurant lights being extinguished a few at a time like candles being blown out. You lean your elbows against the cold thick concrete on the sides of the bridge and watch the dark river below you, extending further than your gaze allows. The scene is blurring at the edges in more ways than one. You don't have to look behind you to know that a more subdued version of the Yarra (less lighting, more trees) bends and curls behind you heading off somewhere deep into the Eastern suburbs.

But this is the view you pick, for it's twinkly lights over still waters: The one that looks out towards the arched pedestrian bridge with Flinders Street Station an orange glow to your right. You stand for a while thinking before moving on. There has been a lot of thinking going on lately and it hasn't all been good. As you walk, hands in pockets, a distinct 'sheltering of self' sign, the taxis come in beside you on the road, one after the other, a yellow conga line. They line up but don't have to wait long - there is never a lack of passengers on Saturday night - Sunday now. As you stand in the taxi rank, a small line on the periphery of the station, a fight breaks out near the turnstiles that go down to the trains. Two young men surrounded by a circle taunting women. Alcohol is ugly if you can't handle it. Suddenly a bottle is thrown and one of them is bleeding down his face. The police come and break up the fight. The bleeding man (boy, really) uses water from an evian bottle to rinse the blood from his face and mixed with the water it falls and makes a garish puddle on the floor below him. It's a sad confirmation of the whole night. A sign, always a sign.

You haven't mentioned E yet, who is leaning against you and commenting on the 'skanks hos and idiots', because essentially, tonight, you feel alone. L still left back at the pub. The whole night started off beautifully - but you don't know anymore. Noone has changed except you. The thought sobers you up even more.