Mike was well into his segment by the time I got to the camellia show. A night of sleeplessness, but in a good way, had made the morning harder to face than normal. I knew I looked like I hadn’t slept, but the smile etched into my face made up for the dark circles under my eyes. In theory, anyway. Mike, on the other hand was looking like he always did; happy, perfect, and like he had slept on a cloud handcrafted by French angels. He was busy embracing one of the town’s biggest tourist events.
The speakers were set up on either side of the outside broadcast van, parked inside the auditorium of the Ex-Servicemen’s Club. I could hear his soothing voice flittering through them. How did that voice ever annoy me? I must have been mad.
“Pindari is having a busy weekend!” he said, chirping like a bird who had just noticed people admiring it through its cage. I liked it. I like his happiness, his confidence. Heck, I liked everything about him.
“Our tiny town in the Riverina is hosting the annual National Cavy Show and the annual (but not national) Camellia Show. For those who have just tuned in, although it was a tough decision, I couldn’t cover both, so I’ve opted to do the Camellia show, so, stay tuned to True Blue FM for more of what’s happening at this florally fantastic event.”
An old Ben Lee song came on the air, “We’re All in This Together.” Yes, Ben…yes, we are.
“Hi Mike.” I stepped into the van and sat on the cloth-trimmed bench seats, watching him remove his headphones. I felt jilted when they didn’t leave an impression on his perfectly styled hair.
“Rosie! So glad to see you. Can you believe we get to go to Myanmar?” Myanmar wasn’t the most surprising thing of going to the annual radio host conference, it was going with Mike. I decided it was Dad who had been tinkering away, wherever he was, striving to throw Mike and me together. He obviously liked him. And Dad always did have good taste. He used to tell me when I was young, that he knew best. But once I hit the revolting teenage years and became, surprise, surprise, a revolting teenager, I stopped believing this, only to find out a decade later he really did know what was best. He always hated my purple flairs with the flowers sewn onto them and finally, I saw his point.
I was going to look pretty silly if there was no external force pulling Mike and me together, or if Dad was buried in his box in the ground, no soul carrying him through an afterlife. My favourite philosophy lecturer at Uni had talked about the likelihood of humans being the only intelligent life form in the universe. He had said that chances were not only pretty much impossible, it was also incredibly vain for humans to believe they were the only intelligent life force. George Bush probably believed it. Kendell probably believed it too.
From that moment, I had thought there must be an afterlife, there must be other forces at work in the universe, and not just Star Trek-related stuff. Surely it was statistically impossible, or at least remote, that we just died and then nothing happened? What was the point of it all then? Why should I have to endure a lifetime of either happily eating cupcakes and being unhappy because I was chubby or, the alternative, being unhappy by not eating cupcakes yet happy I was thin? If we were meant to live and die and that was the end of it, there wouldn’t be any happy or sad, fat or thin. We would all be trees. Or Kellies.
But Myanmar was the proof I didn’t need. Going to Myanmar really was unbelievable. Things like that don’t just happen. Dead people make stuff like that happen.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said, turning to Mike, “but I’m a little bit excited. Not over the moon excited, but not dreading it like the plague, which for me is pretty excited.” I clutched The Art of Happiness, which was in my straw woven pink and purple handbag; a one size fits all bag and not labelled a soul destroying “size 14.” I liked this bag. Mum had bought for me when she went on her last cruise. There’s not a lot of evidence in my cupboard of Mum buying me things because she rarely gets it right. This handbag was different. I loved it.
“I don’t think I’ve looked forward to something this much since the bakery started making sugar-free apple slices. Which turned out to be bloody horrible, by the way.”
“I don’t really have anyone to tell that to, but if I did, I wouldn’t say anything. And sugar-free apple slices are something that should never be made.” He winked at me. I would have gone weak at the knees yet again if I wasn’t already sitting down. One dude with muscles had just used one of said muscles to pull his eyelid over his eye—nothing more—and I was risking fainting like those annoying women in movies set in the 1920s. I would have to make sure I was always sitting when I was around Mike. No point in encouraging situations where I could come off looking like a fool. I did that enough already, but the encouraging thing was, Mike seemed to get me. He didn’t seem to mind when I was being weird as long as I was being kind.
My eyes rolled at the thought, a habitual reaction to a thought about being kind. But I wasn’t even annoyed or exasperated. I was…happy.
“I love this town,” Mike said, leaning back into his chair in the van. “So many interesting things for such a little town.”
I looked at him, confused.
“I’ve never known a community like this one. When people back home ask how I’m finding Pindari, I always tell them, You’re not anyone unless you’re on at least five different committees. I really should join a committee.”
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. Mostly, the only people who really enjoy small towns are people who have lived there their whole lives, or have some sort of a connection to it. Mike had neither, yet he had embraced the town like it was his own body building competition and he won gold just by attending.
“And no, I’m not being sarcastic,” he said. Was my facial expression that obvious? “Hang on, I have to go back on air. How about jumping in the other seat? We could do the rest of the show together.”
“Sure. Why not?” I said, placing the guest headphones over my ears. That stupid grin was back, the one I was only able to remove last night when I fell asleep. Mike grinned back at me and put his headset back on, his silver-flecked hair not moving at all.
“You’re tuned into True Blue FM with Mike at the annual Camellia Show and we have just been joined by Airways of Attitude host, Rosie Dunne.” I silently begged him not to make a reference to my name being a flower. He didn’t.
“Hi everyone, and thanks, Mike, for letting me join your show.”
“You’re welcome. Say, did you go down to the Cavy show this morning?” he asked.
“I did, actually. And for those of your listeners who are not well versed in what a cavy is, it’s a guinea pig. Who knew?” I continued. “I was thinking about these two really different names for the same creature on my way over here. “Cavy” is the alternate name given to what is typically a kid’s pet, so adults can feel more mature when they are forced to admit they breed guinea pigs for a hobby.” Mike was trying not to laugh. “No adult who says they breed guinea pigs is getting any sex. Ever. Now replace “guinea pig” with “cavy,” and the weird adult may have a chance.” I really had been thinking about it. Kangaroos, wallabies, horses, they don’t have two names unless it’s one for the babies and one for the grown-up version of their species. Why do guinea pigs have two names? Maybe I was like the guinea pigs/cavies. One was a kids’ version—all cranky at the world and not at all able to exist in the grown-up world, and the other was a mature version—a better version. Well, in name at least, but if I had had this conversation with John Proctor out of The Crucible, he would have agreed that I was onto something. He died for his name.
People were turning to stare at me. I didn’t care, I had Mike next to me and his physical prowess was making me feel tougher than I normally was. The window of the van showed only our heads, hiding my size 14 body. This also made me brave.
As Ben Lee finished his catchy ditty, Mike hit the microphone buttons, putting us back on air.
“Okay, Rosie, what else can you tell us about the Cavy Show?” He looked genuinely interested. Would it be inappropriate if I put my hand on his knee? I wanted to so badly, but as I inched my palm towards his knee, I withdrew at the last minute. I was too shy.
“It’s on now, at the Basketball Stadium, so you still have plenty of time to go and check it out. The Cavy Show in Pindari is the Comic-Con of domesticated rodents, so go have a look!’
“The Comic-Con of domesticated rodents? Love it. And how are you finding the Camellia Show?” Mike asked. Jan likes to remind all her outside broadcast hosts that we are company for the elderly in town. She likes the radio show to cover events and give a good rundown so the old people who can’t make it can still have some company and feel as though they were there. I chose to ignore this.
“Well, I haven’t been here long and I’m no flower expert, but mostly I would say it’s a case of: “Oh look! A pink flower! Oh wait! More pink flowers, and finally, holy cow, another pink flower!” I was having a ball on air with Mike.
“Thanks, comedian Rosie for your deep insights into one of our town’s biggest money makers. Your opinions are very funny.”
“Camellias are not a funny flower,” I replied. “I don’t think there are any funny flowers. I even used my brilliant research skills to find a funny flower, just now. I Googled “funny flowers.” Google is stupid. And it turns out flowers are serious.” Mike was trying to remain composed, as the lead of the outside broadcast, he needed to remain composed. I wasn’t sure if Jan was going to be too impressed with my comments. No one in the audience was laughing.
Mike took the reins. “About eight hundred people from all over our eclectic nation have come to look at, show off, and buy new guinea pigs. About twenty came to the Camellia Show.”
“And people think Pindari is boring,” I added before Mike pressed play on a Rod Stewart song. My hands did this weird thing where they reached towards his face. I think I was going to clasp it. Or was I going to kiss him? I used every muscle in my body to pull my arms down, every muscle that wasn’t being used to lift up my arms in the first place. It was official. I was obsessed with this man, no longer in control of my own body; a complete an utter twit. Mike acted like he didn’t notice, but I had caught him looking at me out of the corner of his eyes. His body shifted slightly towards me.
“Of the two intensely exciting events, I have now spent more time at the Camellia Show,” I said when we were back on air. “And I’m excited because last week, I had two lavender twigs in pots, trying to grow a bush from them, so I figured I can label myself as a gardener. May as well hang out with my own kind.” I was really on a roll. Mike and I worked perfectly together on air. “And in case you were interested, yes, they died.”
“At the end of the day it’s great that Pindari gets to host events like these. They really put our town on the map, which is why so many of you know where Pindari is, and why you also knew there was a Comic-Con of domesticated rodents.” I loved how Mike referred to Pindari as “our town.” Comments like that got outsiders into inner circles quickly.
“Cavies and camellias are people’s hobbies and they should be respected for being people’s hobbies. Weird people’s hobbies, but weird people are people too. My hobby is complaining on air, so I respect their hobbies for the fodder they provide, and I’m not weird. But I am a keen gardener, as long as the plants don’t produce anything pink.”
Mike played his next song. It was Sinatra. This time I did reach up to touch his face. I stayed in that moment for as long as I could, before it got strange. I wanted to kiss him but touching his face, in a weird, awkward way was all I could muster at this early stage of wanting a man like I had never wanted a man before. Except Jake Gyllenhaal.
“Holy hell. That was a lot of pink,” I said to Mike as we clambered out of the van, hoping he knew I meant the flowers and not the shade of my slightly embarrassed cheeks. I was on a high from a great show and from working with Mike, but especially from being brave enough to touch him.
“This hurts me to say,” I said, “because I never say thing like this to anyone, ever, but that was a lot of fun. I had a lot of fun. With you.”
Reaching out to my arm as I headed out of the van, Mike pulled me into him and kissed me. I melted into him…no, I died and went to heaven. I became an entirely new person in that moment. I was the absolute best version of me because I was feeling like a goddess, and goddesses are perfect, so I was, therefore, the best version of me. Fuck, his lips were so soft, framed by the scratchiness of his stubble. It was the perfect combination. He tasted like strawberries and beer. He smelt like snow and an open fire on a freezing winter night.
Pulling away, his eyes searched mine, and when he found them, we were both grinning again. Looking down, I nudged him gently with my shoulder. He nudged me back.
My already pink cheeks turned to red.
My first kiss happened when I was sixteen. I had been dating the school captain. Our first kiss happened months into our relationship. Paul had come over to visit me, and as I walked him to the front gate, all of a sudden, a pair of soppy wet lips were right in front of my face. I got such a fright, I slapped him. It was my first instinct. Paul ran and never spoke to me again. This kiss, my growing feelings for Mike, were nothing like that. This was becoming pure happiness.
I swirled around, stepping though the door of the van, and came face to face with Debs.
“I knew it!” She was fuming. “Gay, my arse!”
“What?” asked Mike. “Gay? Who’s gay? Fuck, am I supposed to be gay?” He was less than pleased.
Shit. Trust one human to ruin a perfect moment with the only perfect human I had ever met, let alone kissed.
“Hi Debs.” My face was almost buried in my chest, so low was my head.
“Is this about my ironed jeans?” Mike asked. I didn’t even realise he ironed his jeans. But even an odd habit like that wouldn’t change my opinion of him.
“I’m sorry Mike, she was asking a lot of questions about you, and I panicked.” The anger in Mike’s face slowly rolled away and he laughed.
“Hi Debs.” He turned to Martian nail polish as he took my hand. “I’m sorry about Rosie’s story. My sexuality, although no one’s business but Rosie’s now, is, as you can see, straight. Rosie, I think you owe Debs an apology.” I looked at Debs and mustered my best attempt at a smile.
“Look, I am sorry.” It was weird how much I meant it.
“You can apologise to me properly, another time,” Mike whispered to me.
“Whatever,” Debs said, storming away. I watched her thin arse sway as she stormed away. She was putting on a show for Mike. I was really going to have to sort this out or else I was either going to have to travel to the next town to do my shopping or never buy new clothes again. I wondered how long, on average, a piece of clothing lasted.
“Mike, I really am sorry. I felt badly as the words came out of my mouth, if that makes it any better. I’m just so unused to people, and you have made me feel really unnerved since our beer.”
“It’s cool. I’m kind of flattered. I like the fact you were fighting for me.” This man was getting closer and closer to perfection. Maybe he was the divine being moving all the chess pieces to bring us together, Greek god/Trojan War style. Yep, that made perfect sense. When I wasn’t on such thin ice, I would tell him that’s what I thought of him.
I was desperate to regain the feelings I had been enjoying before Debs interrupted with her truth and valid hurtfulness. What a total bitch. “Can I take you for a coffee and maybe start to make it up to you now? Would you like a beer? Want to go and watch The Walking Dead?” The last question blurted out before my brain knew what was happening. I was back to my old weird self. Thank goodness. I’d rather be weird than be found out as a fibber, someone who lies for their own selfish reasons.
“It’s all good, flower. I’ll just file this one away for when I need a favour.” He grew thoughtful. “Maybe I should stop ironing my jeans.”
“You should absolutely stop ironing your jeans.”