1 secret i can never tell you

1. I’m not in the army. I leave you when it gets boring, when you become a dull mix of eyes and nose and moving mouth. I go to small towns and work on stud farms, herding cattle and racing horses through the scrub with the boys. We sit on logs eating ham sandwiches and making dust storms with our boots. When I say I’m from the city, they laugh, chuck me a beer, tell me they’ve never been to the city, never will. At night I talk to the women, locals in white jeans who drink rum and lean over the rail smoking, telling dirty jokes. Sometimes they are travellers, working in the bar. I wait until the end of the night, their shift, and I take them to the dam or the wheat field, somewhere behind a shed, with the chickens scuttling in the background. It’s primitive, serene. I don’t sleep until it’s almost light. When I board the bus and lug my duffel bag up to your doorstep, I realise I really do miss you. I come back to see you always.