[NO TITLE] YVETTE PARSONS

It was three thirty-four a.m. She was reading River Phoenix’s autopsy report. The weight of his spleen was two hundred and fifty grams. Yesterday’s cold mug of tea quietly congealed beside her. Soft rain brushed at the windows. She should go to bed. Tinnitus chirped at her like a summer brood of mating cicadas. She imagined a lumberjack type, with sexy teeth, and a heavy-duty chilly bin. Hail fellow well met with his ute in her driveway. He smelt of cheap soap. He thought he looked fly in his Dirty Dogs — but she couldn’t see his eyes. He said, “It’s summer baby!” Baby. She yawned. The cat lifted its head from its little bed, surveying her with reptilian eyes. The kitchen tap dripped like the heartbeat of the house. The fridge churned its innards. The lumberjack would move in because he was between flats, and she had off-street parking. He’d buy her a fridge. It was a big-ticket item. She’d love him because he let her teach him the names of her lipsticks; and recite them back to her on demand. “Moonstone Violet”, “Amber Reveries!” He’d be on Pornhub day and night. He’d take the TV and disappear 10 years later. He was miserable because she was “vanilla”. The glasses case snapped shut with a velvet thud. She heard the newspaper falling to the floor in rustling waves. The click of her mother’s bedside lamp turning off. The little wet cough. She drew a sigh of relief. She would go for a walk. No one would meet her. She tied her shoelaces neatly. Pulled on her coat which hung by the door, and stepped out into the cold biting air.

JUDGES’ COMMENTS: “A small masterpiece.”

“A very accomplished piece of work.”