I am sitting on the stoop of the Gianni Versace store on Pitt St. It’s around 11:30 in the morning, and the city is really bustling, the traffic has warmed up and is gassing along the streets, tradies driving around with one-tonne trailers loaded with junk; bags of cement and lengths of wood. Workers mill about out the front of office buildings, smoking cigarettes and passing the time, idyll banter and glancing to and fro. Workman lean against poles, leering at the skirts as they saunter past, butts serenading the greasy men, all that’s left for the boys to do is whistle back. An elderly couple peer into a department store window advertising 5 years interest free – the marriage itself looks as though it is just about to hit 50 years interest free. A woman approaches people sitting on benches at the bus stop. I don’t hear a word, but the expression on her face says enough – wrong stop. Heels click against pavement as she totters towards the right one. A young boy and girl embrace each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings as the boy prepares to embark on his journey. The bus isn’t his, and as I board the 309 and it bustles from the sidewalk, I can see them clasping each other tightly, for another few minutes at least.
Another chance to say goodbye.
