Harris leans in. ‘Mistletoe – that’s the stuff that infests the mallee trees, yeah?’
‘Yeah, the framing in that one turned out really nice.’
He touches a finger to the edge of another print. ‘Isn’t that in Murrayville?’
‘Some of them worked out good. Some of them are a bit boring.’
‘No way. These are cool.’ Harris seems fascinated.
I can’t help but grin. ‘You think?’
‘Sure.’ He nods at the ones higher up the wall. ‘Those big landscapes are the best. They look really wild.’
‘Oh –’ I blink at the washes of light and colour in the high prints. ‘They’re really old ones. I haven’t done open landscapes for ages.’
‘So these are the latest?’ He pushes up his hoodie sleeves and examines the pictures right in front of us. ‘That’s tight. You’ve got all the tiny details… That one’s the old machinery at Kow Plains, isn’t it?’
‘Yep.’
‘It seems different.’ His eyes sweep around the whole display. ‘Everything looks different.’
‘Things look different in close-up.’
When I turn to say that I realise how close up we actually are. Harris’s shoulder is right beside mine. I can feel his body heat. Me and Harris have been this close in the treatment room – I’ve seen him with his jeans off, for god’s sake – but now I notice things about him as if I’m seeing them for the first time.
The tops of his cheeks are smooth, even though his jaw is golden with stubble. The golden is all over him: it’s in his tan, his hair, the fine pelt on his forearms. He has a scent – that warm male scent I noticed the first time he was admitted, half perspiration and half something else… The scent of his skin, I guess. And his eyelashes are long, incredibly long. Wasted on a boy, Nani would say. They look soft.
My hands suddenly go sweaty. I rub them on my dress. Then I feel the metal under my palm and remember what I was doing.
‘Right, um, keys.’ I hold them up, dangle them in Harris’s direction.
‘Ah, cheers.’ He reaches to take them and the moment is broken.
I gesture back up the hallway to the kitchen. ‘So, you wanna, um, have a cuppa or something? Maybe a cold drink?’
‘Yeah. Sure. A cold drink would be good.’ His eyes dart around and I wonder if he’s thought about my dad before replying.
The kitchen seems spartan after my room. Dad and I live a simple life. Four tumblers on the shelf, a few plates, half a dozen mugs, a smattering of cutlery – just the bare minimum. A workshop lamp hangs down above the kitchen table, which is hardly big enough for me and Dad to eat together. From the table you only need to walk about one step further in each direction to reach the benchtop, exit to the living room, or open the back door for the steps to the workshop.
I grab tumblers, and juice and ice from the fridge.
‘It’s kind of a small house.’ I wave an unoccupied hand around at the space. Harris seems to take up a lot of it.
‘Nah, it’s nice. Cosy.’ Harris is looking out through the back louvers. ‘So your dad’s a bit of a part-time mechanic, is he?’
He must’ve seen the workshop. ‘Oh, yeah. He’s pretty good at it, actually. Keeps our two-car fleet going. He tunes all the squad cars, too.’ I settle the drinks on the kitchen table. ‘Tinkering, he calls it.’
‘Right.’ He takes another look. ‘That was my dad, too, originally. Diesel mechanic.’
I nod, sitting down. ‘So it’s just you and him? Over in Five Mile?’
‘Yeah.’ He clears his throat. ‘Mum took off years ago. Went back to Adelaide, I think.’
‘Right.’ I push his drink towards his side of the table. ‘Here you go.’
‘Ta.’ Still standing, he grabs the glass and drains off the top.
‘No worries.’ I watch him fidget for a second. ‘You can sit down, you know.’
