Dear Lucy,
You might not hear from me in a while.
I don’t want you to worry. I must get out of Sydney. Out in the endless suburban sprawl, the heat presses in and the air shimmers — then I think I see him in a crowd. His shape, that cocksure strut. A glint — eyes, then teeth — behind that smile. I don’t look the way he likes anymore, but I can’t feel safe. Will I ever?
Do you remember the holiday we had as kids, staying with one of Mum’s old aunts? Days spent thrashing through the bush, nights in front of a roaring fire. We were happy there. It’s all I can think about. Being somewhere I might be able to become someone else.
I hope you are well — forgive the scrawl; the light plays tricks here
This was written to a prompt in my writing group: a malicious smile. I presented it as four separate postcards across the seasons, and the postcards will be “posted” over four days.
Photo: sunset at Sofala, NSW
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