Barely recovered from recent misadventure,
I hurtled into another wager.
The car smelt of last night's soiree,
Sour whisky and vomit.
Fighting to be glad to leave this 13-degree summer morning behind,
I sit silent and sullen.
We are greeted by a suffocating viscosity in the air.
After eighty-three round-abouts we get to the hotel.
It's Christmas day and all good restaurants are closed.
We walk three-quarters of an hour to join some old folks around a seafood buffet.
The heat I can handle.
But humidity makes me disagreeable.
We drive the hour to Port Douglas.
The sprays of vermillion and green waters calm me.
Here we sit by the beach littered with seaweed, the amber rays mellowing gracefully.
Here we feed fish prawn-heads and drink warm white wine.
We linger for hours, talking.
Here I guide you through your first double espresso,
And you roll peeled lychees into my hand.
We fly away from city madness
To promised beauty.
Laughing through devil-may-care days,
The heat wilting our pluck.
Yet there is a real-ness
In the smiles.