on the couch

I sit in the dark in the Jazz in the carport at my good woman’s place, one leg in the car, one leg out. I’m listening to the death throes of the Melbourne Victory’s campaign to make the finals. Rain descends as it has all day. My good woman’s Commodore sloshes up the driveway behind me.

She gets out, a can of Jim Beam and Something in each hand, the excess confidence her son smuggled with him to the party she has just delivered him to. Cans or no cans, she looks good. I step out of my car and we exchange a perfunctory but never-taken-for-granted kiss. I open the hatch and the JRT alights.

Her daughter is out, gone to an earlier party. We plan to sit on the couch and watch videos. I have promised to show her every good Australian movie ever made as my contribution to her understanding of her adopted country.

Her local video rental outlet looks ready for closure, forever, paint peeling off walls, floors carpeted in something sticky. My good woman studies titles, reads slicks, ums and ahs. I pick up two DVDs—Newsfront and Lantana—and I’m ready to go.

Back in her lounge I press every button on the remote but can’t get her TV and DVD player to communicate. She repeats every permutation I’ve tried. We look at each other and shrug. At least we can plough through the tray of crackers, olives, cheese, cocktail mushrooms and ajvar on the coffee table.

One last go—I push a button at the top of the remote with an unreadable symbol under it, the only one untried. Bingo.

We enjoy Newsfront and savour Lantana. I stroke her shins and massage her calves as they lie across my lap. After midnight she calls her son. He wants to stay a little longer. Then her daughter rings. She and her friends are walking from Mitcham station. We rise from the couch and tumble into our cars, my good woman to find her daughter, me to go home and watch the second half of Arsenal versus Liverpool at Anfield.

An injury-time Robin van Persie thunderbolt steals three points for my beloved Gunners.  

Rock on.