‘Don’t you want to come?’ When he didn’t answer, Erin shouted, ‘Fine! You stay here. I’ll go on my own.’ She stumped outside and fossicked out the litter that was wedged into the frame of the picnic tables. Some prawn had rammed a can in there. The cat’s pee tang of acacia blossom cut the air. Skunk, that’s what the Americans always said. I can smell skunk. Nearby, the budgerigars squeaked in their cage. One was dead in the sawdust on the bottom. Erin opened the door and picked up the crumpled feathers. The other birds eyed her. ‘Come on! Door’s open! Take your chance!’ she cried, flapping her hands at them, mustering them towards the open door. They swerved away and huddled in the far corner. Erin chased them round for a few moments, then fastened the door on them, leaning against the cage as a sob welled in her throat. A snatch of TV jingle wafted across the forecourt. She imagined Norm in there, his eyes never leaving the screen. She glanced back in the cage. The budgies were pecking at the seed on the bottom, chirruping at each other. One was jabbing at the wire mesh with his beak. ‘You had your chance,’ she said, then went inside, took out the letter saying she’d won the holiday to Paris, and ripped it to shreds. The shadows were long purple bruises across the scrub by the time Norm left his kiosk. Erin sat at the picnic table, a cup of cold coffee clamped in her hands, staring at the evening star on the horizon. ‘Busy day, huh?’ Norm said. ‘Yep. Good takings, though,’ Erin answered. A long silence swelled between them. Eventually Norm said, ‘About your trip. Maybe one day, eh?’ ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Some day.’ ‘Get you another coffee, darl?’ ‘No thanks.’ She clambered up from the table, went to the bedroom and took down the box with the clippers in. She plugged them in and held the blades to her temples, feeling the buzz shimmy through her skull as the long strands fell in dusty puddles at her feet. It was time for a change.
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