There were two shared Hills Hoist washing lines out the back of the apartment block.
Barren trees in the middle of a neat green lawn. Perpetually green, even in drought. With two concrete paths leading from the shared brick laundry.
Today, as he took the shortcut he noted that one of the lines was being used.
It was right on dawn and a big day ahead, yet he paused, mesmerised by the fluttering of denier in the morning breeze.
Soft silky whispers that drew him in closer and tickled lightly as they caressed his hand, over and around. Not quite touching, but being touched.
The stocking was the same shade as his suntanned calloused hand. Smooth and flawless it caressed the scars, blisters and danced lightly over the barbwire cut, a jaggered gash, new just yesterday. A fling-back from fixing the fences in Mrs Marsh’s river paddock.
The birds began their carolling as the light leeched in to the darkness, and in the distance a semi roared out and down the main road.
Breathing in deeply, the fresh dew of morning with a hint of sweet laundry powder, he quickly snatched his hand back and returned it to his pocket, continuing through the yard and out onto the street without a backwards glance.
But come lunchtime, as he hunkered down on a grey stump in the clearing, eating soggy ham and tomato sandwiches, he could feel again the feather touch and it whispered deep and longingly – that fluttering sensuality of nylon.
With characteristic swiftness he made the decision, crammed the last crust into his mouth and rose, brushing non-existent crumbs off his jeans.
He’d have to go into the city to buy some.
Too many questions would be asked, if he bought them here.
