In the morning there is the sea, her first great love. Lori presses her forehead against the cool of the window glass, staring out at the earth’s edge, that line where sky and water meet and hold. She could spend eternity watching that shifting horizon, past the streetlights and concrete and cars. She can sense it there, even when she isn’t looking. Just as she knows this stretch of road by the brushbox, bloodwood and tuckeroo, knows how close she has come to the sea without needing to look – a deeper knowing, of heart before mind.
Here, the bitumen and earth beneath.
Out there, ever-shifting shadow.
The ocean, in all its moods, has always been Lori’s home.
And now she will return to it.
The taxi slows to pull into the carpark, and she pours everything from her purse. She had a fifty folded up in there, she’s sure enough of that, but the driver isn’t ready for it and half the change goes clinking between the seatbelt clip and console.
Not to worry. She pulls herself out using the handle over the door, and by the time the cabbie lifts his head Lori has already crossed the pavement. She can hear the waves. It’s important not to be delayed. As she shambles over the grass she can hear the bloke calling, ‘You want your change, love? Hey! You forgot your stuff. Hey lady! Hey!’ But she doesn’t turn and will not turn, his voice dwindling to wind-tossed half words lost in the surf, and by the time the sand is there she hears nothing but the sea.
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