Better Days

It’s Autumn here in my new isolation home. Pick me a blue sky, clean waves kind-of morning. I’ll wake early to smile at the sunrise through glass-paned doors, a stretch of orange lounging across the rooftops of my neighbours. So, if the sky says it’s okay to be sleep… I’ll close my eyes for ten minutes more. Then I’ll turn to the person next to me and smile bigger again. It’s the guy who used to be a stranger: we met by chance, then met again; I came to stay for a week, and I haven’t left yet. I’ve said to myself I haven’t been able to leave, but I know that’s not completely true. I could’ve chosen home – England, that is – when the last few flights were travelling across the world. But to sit at home wondering what might have happened, living in the past at a time in my life when the future is everything – that wasn’t to be my isolation.

I’ll slide out of bed and pull on the new dressing-gown his Mum just bought for me – soft, grey leopard-print. Arriving in the Australian summer, warm clothes weren’t on my packing list. I’ll tip-toe down the stairs so as not to wake the rest of the house and laugh to myself at the head-shaped hole in the wall, a product of last Saturday night, too many beers, and his clumsy slip on a step. I’ll will the kettle to be quiet as I make two coffees – cappuccino sachets with a sprinkle of chocolate on top. We sit out the front of the house, waking up; I’ll tell him about a dream which makes no sense when I talk it out loud.

It’s still early and the morning feels sweet. We’ll grab wetsuits and surf boards, and load up the van with the day’s potential, driving somewhere because we can. The smell of fresh paint reminds us of our near adventure, the occasional white drips on the sides showing afternoons spent making this a new home. We talk about where to build the bed, shelves, and cooking station, before we road trip down to Tasmania in a few months. We listen to the music that has sound-tracked isolation, songs full of shared and private thoughts.

Pulling up at our stop, the beach is long and quiet and sun-soaked. The waves are small enough for me and big enough for him: I’ll nose dive, swallow salty water, lose my hair-tie in the rush, and then stand up to ride a wave onto the shore, not quite believing it can feel this good. I look around to see him cheering from the back. We’ll change back at the van into warm clothes, salt drying on our skin, throat burning from the efforts. The world feels peaceful but exhilarating, where anxieties are left floating into the blue horizon.

With places back open, there’s only one sensible next move: a pub feed. No shoes and salty hair, we’ll find a spot by the sea to order a cold schooner and chicken schnitty. It will be a special kind of normality, cooked and served by people who want to be working after weeks of uncertainty and counting pennies. I’ll too, have my old job back the week after, and my attempts to start something new during lockdown will begin to take form. We’ll talk of plans – ours, mine and his. I’ll worry for a second about the future, because it’s now as open as it’s ever been, but it will only last for a second.

The rest of the day could be spent in any way. We might go to a gig in the evening after watching an Autumn sunset from some familiar spot. It doesn’t need to be a big celebration. It’s better because it means recovery, normality, the weight of financial and personal anxieties starting to lift; it means the option to fly home to see family and friends, and the chance for people to show what’s really important. But I’ll recognise it’s best because of a person who’s been there all the time, and I’ll feel a kind of lucky that aches with promise.