Family, Fiction, Health and wellbeing, Melbourne, Relationship and marriage, Writing

At home

‘Well, what would you call it then?’ Tommy asks.

Lucy considers the vista: rambling paddocks, eucalyptus trees litter the hills on the horizon, the full dam, a chicken coop. She and Tommy stand on a verandah that hugs the facade of the house. She’s always wanted a home with a verandah like that. She pictures a swing-seat by the front door; at the back, overlooking the veggie patch, an outdoor dining set for two. They could have their breakfast out there on days just like this one.

The estate agent moves discreetly away from them. Lucy’s thankful. He’s a creep. She’s hesitant to disparage the entire industry, but it does seem to attract slimy, salesy people. As if the used car industry was full and they’re looking for the next-best option.

Tommy’s waiting for her to speak. She can’t remember what they were talking about. Her mind’s racing through their future. They’ve had three babies, built a profitable almond farm, become involved in the local community—in fact, Tommy’s the mayor. Why not?

‘Sorry? What did you ask me?’ she asks.

‘Well, we were discussing how tranquil the place feels and you kind of shrugged it off. So, I guess I’m waiting to hear how you’d describe it.’

Lucy reaches for Tommy’s hand. She gives it a squeeze. ‘Perfect. I’d call it perfect.’

Photo by Rudi Strydom on Unsplash

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