izzy

sketches for my sweetheart the drunk
2. The sun is creeping up on you again, it’s 26 degrees and you are swaddled in a black wool coat, clutching at your throat.

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sarah

He used to park as though he was ironing –
forward back forward back
anxiously easing into the bay
worried about the mothers with prams in front of him
the little old ladies behind
the ones his driving instructor had always warned him about hitting
when he didn’t do his head checks right
so when one day he drove through tears to the IGA
with some half-formed idea of a cheap cinnamon donut
and a jumbo pack of Panadol
telling himself ‘stop fucking overthinking everything you do
you cowardly piece of shit’
and he backed in one movement into the carpark
straight into the bonnet of the car behind
the unfairness of it all took his breath away
and he sat behind the wheel, chest frozen
forgetting for just a minute how to bring air out and in
forgetting how, for a minute, and why

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