This story is part 4 of 5 of The Man From Kiama.

She had soured on Sydney and what she called the ‘interminable vibrations of hipster capitalism’. He was sure that he would never understand what she meant by this.

She got a job engineering espressos for locals who frequented her cafe for little more than some company while they read the paper.

The two of them would sit in the hammock and watch the trains chug to and fro. When she first arrived she would lay with her head on his chest but as the months passed he began to notice the surfacing of a restlessness she could not tame. She no longer gazed out at the beach – she was now looking back toward the city beyond.

Over the course of the summer the black roots of her hair grew while the auburn ends were continually trimmed back. The colour had been entirely eliminated when she told him she was leaving.

This story is part 3 of 5 of The Man From Kiama.

She said she would return to Kiama on the weekend but he knew it was a lie. The train accelerated away from the platform and glided over Terralong Street en route to Bombo, where they had spent the previous day walking along the seaside cliffs, and the city beyond.

It would be two months of excuses and last minute work things before she finally made that return trip. He watched her train wind into town from the hammock on his porch and met her at the station five minutes later.

Her hair had grown to reveal black roots that she had not bothered to recolour. Each centimetre of that black hair represented a week since he had last seen her and smelled the Chanel perfume she had been sharing exclusively with Sydneysiders in the meantime.

The bag she brought was bigger than he was expecting. Soon they would kiss and he would effortlessly take the handle of her bag even as he wrapped his other arm around her waist and began to lead her toward the station stairs.

For now, though, they stood and populated a moment.